Papa Gene's Blues
by Brighid45
Summary: Thirteenth story in the Treatment series. House is with Sarah in Oklahoma, helping her confront her troubled past while he runs the clinic and romances Roz long-distance. NOTE: this series is AU to the canon storyline after the S5 finale 'Both Sides Now'. Drama, angst, humor and OC lovin'. Now revised and updated.
1. Chapter 1

_(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)_

_No heartaches felt, no long and lonely_

_nights of waiting, finally won me_

_happiness that's all rolled up in you_

_And now with you as inspiration_

_I look toward a destination_

_sunny bright, that once before was blue . . . _

_March 12th_

Sarah stirred and opened her eyes. It took a few moments for her to remember where she was. She lay in the soft darkness for a little while as she struggled to hang onto a desire to sleep, but at last she got up, put on her bathrobe and went down the hall to the kitchen.

Eventually she found herself out on the back porch. It was chilly, but she didn't really mind it that much. Apparently she'd gotten inured to colder temperatures at home, a thought that surprised her; so now their house in the mountains was truly home at long last. She sat down on the top step and stared out at the yard. It was simple, nondescript; Laynie's flower garden still had its protective layer of newspaper mulch, but it was possible to see tender shoots of grass.

Sarah lifted her eyes to the expanse of sky. In the soft blue a moon hung low and pale, just past half-full. It felt strange not to see mountains on the horizon but the openness was familiar too, as was the wind that tugged at her hair and nipped her toes with chill.

_Have to go up to Tulsa tomorrow._ The knowledge infected every thought. Laynie wanted her to wait a few days, but that would only make the dread worse. Better to rip the bandage off the wound that had never quite healed. That's what she was here for, wasn't she? She shivered and tucked her feet into her robe. Her fear meant she wasn't able to separate the past from her present, and yet it was hopeless to try. How many mornings had she done this, looked to gain a few moments of peace in households where she was neither wanted nor understood?

Tulsa meant all kinds of things, the knowledge tucked away in the room at the back of her mind, where she kept old memories under lock and key. She hadn't examined that room in quite some time; now she wasn't sure what she'd find when she opened the door. Would piles of rubbish tumble out? Would it be empty except for a few old cobwebbed boxes? She thought it might be somewhere between the two. The notion held no comfort, only a sort of grim, dreary duty. Sooner or later she would have to turn the key in the lock and enter.

After a while she rose and went into the house, and ignored sunshine as it came through the door behind her.

She found voicemail on her phone when she checked it—Jason had called before school, but another was from Gene, with no message. She stared at the ID for a long time before she hit speed dial.

"Hey," she said when he picked up. He didn't answer. She waited, but he said nothing. "Thanks for calling me back," she said at last. Silence. "How are you?"

"When are you going to Tulsa?"

Sarah closed her eyes. So he wasn't going to play nice; fine, she could be terse and cold too. "Tomorrow. I'd go tonight, but-"

"Sare, _dammit_." He made an angry noise, almost a growl. "You just got there and now you want to wade right in and start throwin' punches—"

"I can't sit around for days on end, Gene. I _won't_."

"Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"Some," she said, unwilling to admit how much she'd tossed and turned.

"As in none," Gene snapped. He didn't speak for a moment. When he did talk again his voice was quieter, but she could hear the strain. "Take one of the sleeping pills I put in your purse. You're exhausted and you need to rest before you head up there and wade into that ongoing shit storm you got stuck with in place of a real family."

The ache of worry in his words made her eyes fill with tears. "I just want to get this over with."

"Come on, Sare! You know it doesn't work that way! If one of your patients was pullin' this stupidity you'd be all over them to stop it. But it's okay for you to get yourself beat up over and over—"

"I won't get beat up!" It was a lie, she knew it as she said it.

"Just take the damn sleeping pill," Gene said after a tense silence. "Please."

"I'll talk to you later tonight," Sarah said, and ended the call. She set the phone beside her and grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand; her eyes kept leaking, and she couldn't seem to get the lump out of her throat.

After she'd calmed down a bit she went to the kitchen. She'd just started a cup of tea when Greg entered, hair tousled, his bathrobe thrown on over tee shirt and flannel pants in a haphazard fashion. Sarah felt a swell of affection but said only "Good morning. I'll make you some coffee if you like."

"Mmph." He limped to the table and took a seat, yawned and scrubbed his face as she got out the filters and coffee grounds. "Heard you on the phone earlier. You and your boy toy had a little tiff."

She felt her cheeks grow warm. "No."

"Which is Okie-speak for 'yes'." Greg leaned back and rubbed his thigh, something she hadn't seen him do in some time. "What's the problem besides your being here?"

Sarah took the basket out of the maker and tucked a filter in place. "Nothing."

"You know, you should practice lying more often because you're really bad at it."

"Maybe you should mind your own business," Sarah said. Her hand shook as she measured grounds into the filter.

"It's too damn early in the morning for this self-indulgent nonsense, but I'll oblige you for once," Greg said. "You insisted I come on this little jaunt into your sordid past, so you can't complain about my attitude when it's what you wanted in the first place." He folded his arms and gave her an inimical stare. "Don't even start that pull-it-out-deeper game with me, Goldman. It's loads of fun in the bedroom, but it won't work here since we're both married to other people."

Sarah shoved the basket into the maker and flipped the switch. "Fine. You want to know what we were fighting about? He asked me to wait a few days before going to Tulsa. I'm supposed to take a sedative and chill out until the weekend or something." She took a mug from the collection in the dish rack, along with a spoon.

"My _god_, how unreasonable," Greg said with considerable sarcasm.

"Yeah, it is!" Sarah kept her voice down, but it was hard. "I have a limited amount of time here—"

"Now see, that's what I'm talking about," Greg said. "Excellent start for a great lie."

"It's the truth! I don't think I can wait around—" She stopped, her breath caught in her throat, and watched dark brew start to fill the carafe. " . . . I won't," she said at last. "I just won't."

"So you're taking the tough-medicine approach. Dump a ton of salt in the gaping wound and hope for the best." Greg shook his head. "I'm with Gunney on this one. Take a couple of days. You're not ready to face changing channels on the tv, let alone those knuckle-draggers you're stuck calling family."

"I'll go by myself if I have to."

Greg got to his feet and limped to the coffeemaker. He took the carafe out and filled his cup, oblivious to the stream of hot liquid on the hot plate, dumped in two large spoonsful of sugar and headed out of the kitchen. Sarah got up to stuff the carafe back in place and winced at the smell of burnt coffee. "Jerk," she muttered under her breath, but her heart wasn't in it. He was right, she knew he was, and so was Gene. She didn't care.

After she'd cleaned up the mess she sat at the table and called Jason. She'd expected to leave a message on voicemail, but he picked up on the second ring. "Mom? Are you okay? Are you coming home?"

Sarah gave a silent sigh. "Just wanted to return your call, sweetheart. I thought you couldn't use your phone during class."

"I'm outside, it's recess." It was so clearly a lie Sarah couldn't help but smile. "When are you coming home?"

"Jay, I'll call you later when it's okay for you to talk, all right?"

"Do you think you might get back early?"

"We discussed this before I left, love. Three weeks, sooner if I can manage it." Sarah struggled to keep her tone gentle. "I'm not going to make a promise I can't keep. I might be here that whole time, might not."

"Okay." Jason didn't sound convinced. "Miss you, Mom. Dad does too, he just doesn't want to say so because he's being a dick."

Now she did smile. "Jason, your dad is _not_ being a dick. He's worried and scared and mad because he loves me." She drew in a breath at the knowledge as it touched her deep within. "I love him too. But thanks for letting me know he misses me."

"I love you." In the background an adult's voice could be heard, full of exasperation. "Gotta go, Mom. Talk to you later."

"You stinker," Sarah said, but Jason was already gone. She put her phone away as Laynie came into the kitchen on a huge yawn.

"Still an early riser, I see," she said, and sniffed the air. "Who burned the joe?"

It felt like old times—the good kind, to sit together over morning brew and talk. "I think you should wait," Laynie said when Sarah told her what she wanted to do. "Knowing you, that isn't gonna happen." She sipped her coffee. "You should listen to your men. They're worried about you." She set down her mug. "So am I. You know you're not ready for this yet, Sare. But that stubborn streak's kicked in and the more anyone tells you not to do something, the more determined you are to do it."

"I just want to get it over with." Sarah drank the last of her tea and got up to make another cup.

"I know you do, sweetie. It's just that you'll need all your strength to deal with those people." Laynie's expression held equal parts concern and affection. "Please consider taking a day or two to decompress and get some rest." She reached out, put her hand over Sarah's. "Sooner Tornado Research has a brand new chasing vehicle now, you know. We could go out for a spin this afternoon. You haven't seen the new setup in the office either. Anyway, I'd love to take you and the tall one out to dinner. I bet you don't get decent barbecue back east."

"You'll make the tall one happy talkin' like that." Sarah sat down and stared at the steaming cup she'd set on the table. "You . . . you really think I should try to wait?"

"Yeah, honey. Give yourself time to get used to being here. You go up there without being ready, it'll just make things worse."

[H]

"When's Mom coming home?"

Gene gave Jason a look. "You're not gonna get a different answer no matter how many times you ask, okay? She'll come home when she comes home. You got your schoolwork done?"

"Yeah, Roz helped me with it." Jason picked up his plate. "I thanked her for dinner."

"Good man." Gene got to his feet. "Let's get the dishes done and watch some tv."

He listened to the quiet while he washed and rinsed, and Jason dried and put away. It felt like any other night at home, but the vital spark that warmed the household was gone. He missed the sound of Sarah's clear, musical voice raised in harmony with the song on the radio, her soft laugh, the brush of her bright curls against his cheek. He could still make her blush just as hard as she did the first time he'd laid eyes on her, as she sat with Laynie in the dimness of the coffeehouse, her beautiful eyes full of confusion, fear and that shadow of delight he'd come to treasure.

He waited until an hour or so after Jason had gone to bed before he sat on the couch, picked up the phone and dialed Sarah's number.

"Hey," she said. She sounded a little better. "You're up late."

"What did you decide?"

She didn't answer right away. "I'll wait."

Gene let go a breath he hadn't realized he held. "Okay. Good."

"I'll . . . I'll take a sedative tonight too." She sighed. "I'm sorry, love."

"If I didn't expect grief from you, it wouldn't be a normal day," he dared to tease a little.

"Aw, shut up."

"You're already gettin' your twang back," he said. It was meant as a joke but he felt a little pang at the thought.

"Once a Sooner," she said. "How's Jay?"

"He wants you back home. Me too."

"I know." She didn't say anything for a few moments. "I love you. Get some sleep."

"Bed's too big without you," he said.

"On my side of things too. I'll call you in the morning, okay?"

When she'd gone he stared into the fire for a long time and tried not to think of her almost a continent away, alone and afraid despite her brave words, a single spark in the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

_March 16th_

It's the afternoon of a really pretty day—lots of sunshine and white clouds in the wide sky. Greg sits on the back porch while a mild breeze stirs what's left of his hair, as he listens to his fellows argue about symptoms. They've interrupted him in the middle of a picking session. It's just him, a beer and a nice old beater of a six-string, kicked back in a comfortable chair; the women are off to play with their new toy, the chase vehicle Laynie bought the year before with grant money.

"Who got the diagnosis first?" he says again. There is a little silence.

"Singh," Chandler says with some reluctance.

"Ataxia telangiectasia," Singh says. There's no gloating, just satisfaction in the truth. "It explains everything—the lesions, the poor muscle coordination, the Hodgkin's. Not much we can do except treat the cancer and try to make sure Pete's upper respiratory infections are kept to a minimum. That will be tough, since of course chemo suppresses the immune system."

"Pete?" Greg asks, provocative just for the hell of it.

"The patient does have a name," Chase says in a dry tone. "Though I suppose you think his parents shouldn't have bothered, considering he probably won't make old bones."

"I'm shocked at your callous and cruel attitude. He could live to be a hundred and you could kick off tomorrow when a feed truck plows into your car." Greg picks a chord. "Don't forget, you swinging singles are paying for tonight's celebration dinner. So what's new in the world of patient case files?"

"Forty-six year old male with pronounced nystagmus," Chandler says, all business. "Patient reports malaise and irritability. There's indication of an OCD—"

"One obsessive-compulsive recognizes another," Greg chips in, just to bug her.

"—and loss of muscle tone. He's having a tough time walking." Chandler continues as if he hadn't spoken, but Greg hears the annoyance in her tone and smiles a little.

"It's probably neurological," Singh says.

"Ya think?" Greg snipes, and Sandesh chuckles.

"Now and then I've been known to do so, and this time I think it would be a good idea to get a full body scan."

"Waste of time," Greg says.

"The guy's got MRI and CAT scans in his file," Chase says. "They were done in the last year."

"Since you've already got 'em, check for a brain tumor. It'll be itty bitty," Greg says.

"But you just said scans were a waste of time," Chandler says.

"_Us_ getting a scan, yeah. But if someone else has already done it, why not use the opportunity to take a look?"

"That makes no sense," Chandler says. She sounds both frustrated and confused. Greg grins because he knows she can't see him.

"Great ideas never do," he says. "Who else is warming up in the patient bullpen?"

"Twenty-six year old female—" Singh starts.

"Is she cute?" Greg throws in. Sure enough, Chandler takes the bait.

"What possible difference does that make?"

"Hey, either it's a symptom or it's just a nice perk to make diagnosing the wench easier to live with." He starts to pick a tune.

"I object to your use of the term 'wench'," Chandler says, all cold and hard.

"Of course you do," Greg says. "Somebody want to get around to listing some symptoms, pretty please little miss sweetie pie?"

"I was doing that—oh, never mind," Chandler says. Greg can hear her grind the enamel off her teeth. "Patient has an enlarged spleen and esophageal varices—"

"Alcoholic," Chase chimes in.

"Takes one to know one," Greg says, unable to resist the cheap shot.

"Yeah, and she's one," Chase says, unperturbed.

"She's not," Chandler says. "She's Mormon. That means no alcohol, no tobacco and no caffeinated drinks."

Immediately he thinks of Cole. A series of memories clicks into place: a punch in the face for the insult to Joseph Smith, manipulation of the potential fellow to get him to ingest alcohol, the look of disbelief and anger on the man's face when told to leave for his willingness to collude with authority. "She's human, and that means she lies like she breathes," Greg says.

"She's _not_ lying. Blood tests are clean, though she's a little on the anemic side. She's also having night sweats, fatigue and shortness of breath," Chandler says, all angry indignation. Her reaction is too strong for the argument. Greg tucks it into the mental file he keeps on her, and lets it go for now.

"Early-onset menopause," Singh offers. "If she's into the cooking sherry or vanilla extract, that could be adding symptoms on symptoms."

Greg nods. "Quantify 'a little on the anemic side'," he says. "Has anyone actually looked at her blood? I mean beyond reading the lab results?" The silence makes him sigh. "First rule for idiots who need reminding: do a physical examination," he says. "That includes putting red stuff on a slide and sticking it under a microscope."

"Okay, boss," Singh says. "We'll get back to you."

"Do it by carrier pigeon," he says, and ends the call.

He sits there for a while, works on the tune he started, lets the chords slide away under his hands, to drift into the soft warmth of the quiet afternoon. When the song is done he sets aside the guitar, picks up the phone and hits speed dial.

"Hey," he says when Roz answers.

"Hey, _amante_." Her dark, cool voice holds everything he wants to hear. "How's it going?"

"Life continues on. What are you wearing?" He puts a leer in his voice just to make her laugh, and she obliges him.

"I came home early, so I'm still in my jumpsuit. Under that, a tee shirt and pair of jeans that should've been washed three days ago," she says.

"_Ew_, and I say again, _ew_." He doesn't really care—actually he likes it when her clothes take on her sweet musky smell—but it's fun to get a rise out of her. "You quit early because . . ."

"I wanted to wash up and put on something clean before I make dinner for Gene and Jason tonight." She's so matter-of-fact about it, just another thing to do in a busy day. Suddenly Greg feels a strange tightness in his chest, an odd yearning for the familiar sight of his wife in her favorite old long-sleeved tee shirt and jeans; a glimpse of her in the study, at work on some project; her next to him on the couch to talk a little, exchange kisses, cuddle.

"So what's your hurry?" he says. "Let's have some fun. What _aren't_ you wearing?"

Roz laughs in genuine amusement. He closes his eyes and enjoys the sweet sound. "You're such a horndog."

"Hey, you decided to do the whole 'for better for worse' thing," he says. "Can't complain now."

"That I did. If I'd known you were so into sex with me, I'd have married you a lot sooner," she teases, and it's his turn to chuckle.

"Come on, tell me you're standing in the bedroom with just your red briefs on," he says, as he settles back and unzips his fly. Good thing the yard has a nice high fence and a few trees to block anyone who might look in.

"So what if I am?" Roz says, all provocation and sly amusement. "Not for long. It's cold in here, I'm covered with goosebumps."

He envisions her slender form as she shivers in the golden lamplight. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, I suppose I could get comfortable." There's a soft rustling sound, and suddenly there's music in the background.

"Booker T," he says, pleased. "That's my naughty girl."

"Hey, it gets me in the mood . . . mmmm." She sighs, a breathy little sound, and he knows what she's doing. He rubs himself through the fabric of his briefs and brings out Mount Gregory, feels that first enjoyable stir of arousal. "Your fingers are cold, but the things you're doing to me . . ."

"What am I doing? Tell me," he says, just as Laynie comes through the back door.

"Hey House, we decided to come back a little early—" She stops dead. Greg doesn't flinch, just tips the chair back a bit and keeps his hand in place. To his surprise she doesn't freak out. Instead she folds her arms and gives him an amused look. "Sweet Mother India, my eyes," she says, heavy on the sarcasm. "Did I really need to learn you have a birthmark there?"

"That'll teach you to show up on your back porch unannounced," Greg says.

"Wait—you're _outside_?!" Roz just sat up, he can tell. The mood's definitely been killed.

"I said _back_ porch, not front," he says.

"What's the matter?" Sarah comes to the door, takes a look at the situation, rolls her eyes and retreats into the kitchen without comment. Laynie raises an eyebrow.

"I think you better zip up and apologize to your wife," she says, but her blue eyes are full of laughter.

"Oh my _god_," Roz groans. "Please tell me you're not sitting there with everything hanging out in front of Laynie and Sare."

"Okay, I won't tell you."

Laynie shakes her head. "When you're done, wash your hands and join us in the living room. Fully covered, please." She heads into the kitchen with a smirk.

"_Idiota_," Roz says. She sounds like she's torn between exasperation and amusement.

"Let's start over," Greg says. "Not with the idiot thing, I mean what we were doing earlier, before we were so rudely interrupted by the vice squad."

"You know, the whole mood just got killed stone dead, since two of my best friends just walked in on us having phone sex."

"Aw _jeez_," Greg whines.

"Anyway, I do have a dinner to make for Gene and Jason," Roz says. "But . . . I _could_ call you later tonight when I get home."

He chuckles, low and dirty. "It's a date."

After a few more pleasantries Greg ends the call, zips up his jeans, picks up the guitar and goes into the house. He takes several cookies from the jar on the counter and makes his way to the living room, where he puts the instrument back where he found it and claims the couch. Laynie talks quietly with Sarah, but when he sits down she gives him a look. "You put those unwashed piddies in my cookie jar," she says.

"If only that were true," Greg says, and stretches out. He crams half a cookie in and munches. "What's up?" he says through a mouthful of food. "Besides me."

"Is he always like this?" Laynie asks Sarah.

"Worse," Sarah says, but she smiles just a little. She looks better, not so pale and impassive and closed up.

"Hardy har har," Greg says. "How was your little adventure?"

"Pretty cool," Laynie says. "We're going out on Sunday to do some chasing. Wanna come with?"

"Depends on where you're going," he says, and gives Sarah a keen look.

"Not Tulsa," she says. "Almost the opposite direction, in fact. Texas panhandle, the eastern side. Strong storms comin' up."

"We thought you'd enjoy seeing what it's like," Laynie says.

"What I'd really enjoy is knowing why neither one of you was freaked out by what you saw on the back porch." Greg selects another cookie and demolishes it.

"I _am_ married," Sarah says. "And there were older brothers before Gene."

"That doesn't explain Lezzy Cornfed's reaction."

"I just love your charming habit of labeling people," Laynie says, but there's no real animosity in her words. "You think I've never seen a guy getting it up?" She shakes her head. "I wouldn't have expected such naivete from you."

"Tell," Greg says, intrigued.

Laynie looks down her nose at him. "I went to college. You gonna chase with us tomorrow or stay here and embarrass my neighbors?"

"Only if I get to choose the music," he says after a moment.

"Fine by me, as long as there's no headbanger stuff," Laynie says. Of course he immediately starts a plot to fill up a playlist on his iPod with as many hard metal and thrasher bands as he can find. Sarah gives him the mom look from across the room.

"Do what you're planning, and you'll be dealing with two very unhappy women," she says. "Not to mention giving Laynie a migraine."

"Anything with a lot of feedback and heavy percussion always wreaks havoc," Laynie says. She gets to her feet. "I'll let you two discuss the details."

After she leaves the room Greg gives Sarah a long stare. "You're being awfully cooperative for some reason."

"First I'm too stubborn and now I'm too agreeable. Can't do anything right, can I?" There is a hard edge to her words he's never heard before.

"Just sayin'," he says, cautious now. He doesn't want his head bitten off this soon into proceedings. Sarah looks away.

"Sorry."

"Oh, balls you are."

She sighs softly. "Can we not do this?"

"A little too late to start complaining you don't like how I roll," he says, annoyed now. "Shouldn't have to give you the speech again." He pops a piece of cookie and munches.

"Look, I'm just tryin' to do what everyone wants me to, okay?" Sarah sounds like she talks through gritted teeth, much as Chandler did earlier. "Excuse the hell out of me if I ain't gracious about it."

He knows better push but he does it anyway. "Something crawled up your ass and died, apparently."

"No it didn't." She passes a hand over her face and just for a moment, looks her age. "I just . . . just don't like waiting, that's all." She hesitates. "It scares me."

"You also don't like not getting your own way," he points out.

"That too," she says, and now there's no rancor in her tone. She stands up. "Let's watch the game."

"What game?" He stretches a little, relieved that she doesn't plan to blow a gasket.

"Exhibition on ESPN, I think it's Phils and Tigers."

Without saying anything Greg slides over. Sarah takes the seat next to him. She doesn't crowd him; instead she tucks her feet up under her and lays her cheek against the back cushion—a self-contained world perched next to him, remote and in an odd way, unknown. When she finally falls asleep he doesn't wake her, taking a peculiar comfort from her even, soft breath.

[H]

"Dad, can I ask you a question?"

Gene glanced at Jason. They worked together at the dining room table—Jay worked on extra credit homework, while Gene balanced the checkbook, something he still preferred to do with paper and pencil.

"Of course," he said. "As long as you're not gonna ask me when Mom's coming home."

Jason fidgeted with his pen. "No, I wasn't." _This time_, his tone implied. He hesitated. "The scars on Mom's arm . . . she said someone else did that to her. Who was it?"

Gene sat back. "You'll have to talk to her about it," he said slowly. "That's not my story to tell, son. What makes you ask?"

"If . . . if her family hurt her that bad—"

"Badly."

"—badly, why is she trying to see them again?"

It was a fair question, one Gene had pondered at length from the start of Sarah's decision to visit Oklahoma. "Things are different now."

"How are they different?" Jason set the pen aside and faced Gene. "She's really scared, you know."

By now Gene was no longer surprised at Jason's acute perception. "Tell me how you know that." He made it a request, not a demand.

"I can hear it in her voice. And before she left, the way she stood, with her shoulders all scrunched up and her head down—she wouldn't look me or you or Doctor House in the eye," Jason said. "Didn't you see it?"

"Yeah, I did," Gene said. "She needs to know we love her without making her feel worried or guilty." It was advice he needed to take himself; he struggled to avoid arguments with Sarah when she called, and wasn't always successful.

"Okay." Jason pushed the work away and closed his notebook. "I can finish this on Saturday when Mandy comes over."

"Fine by me," Gene said. "Let's go up and get ready for bed. We can read an extra chapter tonight while we wait for Mom to call."

"Wicked," Jason said. He got up and came over to Gene, put his arms around him and held on. Gene returned the embrace.

"Love you, son," he said softly, and kissed Jason's temple, then gently ruffled the boy's unruly waves of hair. "Go on upstairs."

A short time later they were halfway through the second chapter of _The Silver Branch_ when the phone rang. Gene let Jason pick up. "Hey Mom," he said, and smiled at the sound of Sarah's voice.

"How's it going?" she asked Gene after Jason handed over the phone a few minutes later.

"Okay," Gene said. "How's everything on your side?"

"We're chasing on Sunday. Greg's coming with us." It was as much an evasion as an answer, but Gene knew better than to push for more.

"He'll enjoy that," he said, and was surprised to feel a little spurt of envy. "Gonna miss you tomorrow night."

"I'll miss you too." Sarah is silent a moment. "I'll be in Tulsa on Tuesday." She spoke with an edge of defiance, but since his talk with Jason Gene could hear more clearly the tension and fear beneath the bravado. It had always been there, he just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it.

"Okay," he said quietly. "What can I do to help?"

"Wow. No guilt trips, no recriminations? I'm impressed."

"I'd just like to find some way to stand with you," Gene said. "If you'll let me."

Sarah did say anything at first. "Thanks," she said finally. "I'd—I'd like to call you after . . . afterward."

"Okay," he said, though he longed to argue with her. "We can do that."

"What's with the new supportive you?"

"Sometimes you make me so mad I forget how happy you make me the rest of the time." He quoted one of the magnet signs on their fridge. He was relieved to hear Sarah give a soft chuckle.

"That's true on my side too," she said. "So why don't we stop there for tonight."

"Good idea," he said. "I love you, Sarah Jane."

Despite the relatively pleasant end to the call, he had trouble with sleep that night. Worry held him awake for a long time, and when he did finally drift off, it was to dream of gunfire and people on the run in every direction under a red sky.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Sare!_ Come on, wake up!"

Sarah jolted awake. She dared to open her eyes and found Laynie seated on the side of the bed. When Laynie's arms went around her she hung on tight.

"I'm sorry," she managed to choke out. "I'm sorry."

"You had that damn dream again, didn't you?" Laynie's presence was solid, comforting. "It's been a long time."

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Sara caught a glimpse of Greg in the doorway, bathrobe thrown on in apparent haste over his tee shirt and briefs. He glared at her, but she could see he was visibly shaken.

"I'm sorry," she said again, unable to stop shaking. She was half-in, half-out of the dream and couldn't move into one world or the other.

"Do you know how to make tea?" Laynie said to Greg.

"What does that have to do with anything? She was screaming like someone hacked her arm off!"

"There's some loose-leaf decaf in the fridge and a tea ball in the drawer by the sink. Three minutes steeping time, max. Make a full pot." When Greg opened his mouth Laynie said sharply, "No arguing, just do it!" He gave her a look, but stumped off down the hall. Laynie eased Sarah back a bit. "I know I've said this before, but I think you need a hypnosis session to find out what the hell's going on with this dream. It's time to deal with this, Sare."

Sarah closed her eyes. "We'll freak out Greg even more."

"I'm thinking it wouldn't hurt him to have his worldview challenged every now and then," Laynie said dryly. "Besides, he's a big boy. He'll survive." She paused. "How bad was it? You were pretty loud."

"Bad," Sarah said. She remembered the _sound_, that great blast as it vibrated through her, and shuddered. "Could . . . could we wait until after we come back from chasing? I'm not ready. Not yet." _Not ever_, she thought.

"Nope. Session first, or we're not going anywhere." Laynie clasped Sarah's hands in hers. "You know you need to do this."

"Breakfast after," Sarah said.

"Control freak." Laynie kissed her cheek. "Okay, it's a deal. Maybe some sugar and fried pig meat will soften up the skeptic so he won't come down on us gullible fools too hard."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Good luck with that," she said, but got up and followed Laynie into the kitchen. Greg was there, about to pour boiling water into the teapot. At their arrival he gave Sarah a hard stare but said nothing.

The ritual of cups, sugar and milk helped restore a bit of normalcy. Sarah drank the hot brew and savored the taste of tannins and a bit of sweetness, familiar and comforting.

"Tea always did help you before a session," Laynie said.

"What's next, an emetic purge?" Greg asked. He drank coffee, having refused the tea because it had no caffeine.

"Actually Sare's up for a hypnosis session to access the dream state," Laynie said. Sarah started to object, then subsided. _Laynie's right,_ she thought. _Time to deal with this. That's why I'm here._

Greg snorted. "Why am I not surprised? I should be, given the fact that you're both something of a rarity—intelligent women who don't indulge in idiotic beliefs as a general rule."

Sarah tightened her grip on the mug. "How about you let me deal with things the way I want to deal with them," she snapped.

Greg tilted his head. "Hey, if you want to act like an idiot, no skin off my nose. I'm just pointing out the flaws in your little plan, like a complete lack of logic or rational thought."

"Just ignore him and work on that cup of tea," Laynie said to Sarah. "That way I can get things set up. You know, kill the chicken and smear the walls with blood so we won't have to wait."

"Please tell me you're kidding," Greg said. Laynie smiled sweetly and left the kitchen.

"If you decide to watch, don't stomp all over what's happening," Sarah said after a brief silence. "I don't expect you to participate or believe in what's going on. Just leave it alone."

"Hah." Greg took a cookie from the jar. "When have you ever known me to be hands off?"

"I'm asking you as a favor. I'll owe you one in return, a big one. Okay?"

He considered it, damn him. "Anything?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Doesn't matter what it is?"

"Well, if you want a contract hit on an enemy you might ask someone with better aim."

"Ah ah ah." He wagged a finger at her. "No conditions."

Sarah glared at him. "Fine. What the fuck ever. That means not a single peep out of you, do you understand? Not. One. Sound. You say or do anything critical or negative, the deal's off and I'll kick your ass out."

"What the fuck ever," Greg tossed back at her.

Sarah sighed. "Think of it as anthropological observation, then. Rituals of primitive belief, old wives tales, whatever it takes for you to get through this without comment. I don't care if you believe in what we're doing. I just care about keeping my thoughts focused. That's all I ask."

Greg shrugged. "You want to wallow in illusion, fine by me." He fell silent as Laynie came in.

"Whenever you're ready we can start," she said.

[H]

Greg follows the women into the living room. It's a bit of a disappointment to find a green yoga mat and a small purple cushion laid out on the floor—nothing exotic or mysterious about that. Next to them is a bowl filled with polished stones of various colors. There's a faint fragrance in the air—not the cloying incense he expects, but something clean and woodsy, and the sound of simple tones being played softly, the harmonics pleasing. The atmosphere is calm, quiet.

"I know you're a skeptic," Laynie says. "If you get fed up with the proceedings, leave the room. Messing around during a session is a very bad idea."

"That's the least of what I am," he says. "But don't mind me, I'll just sit here and snicker."

"No you won't," Laynie says with uncharacteristic sharpness. "You'll show a little respect for someone who's taken good care of you. That means you'll keep your trap shut."

He gives a stage yawn. "Bored already."

"No surprises there," she says. "Sit someplace out of the way."

"Just remember our deal," Sarah says. She goes to the mat and lies down, tucks the cushion under her head; it's plain this is a familiar procedure. She closes her eyes as Laynie kneels next to her.

"Balancing first," she says, and brings the bowl of stones closer, chooses one. It's black and shiny. Laynie places it on the join of Sarah's thighs. "If you need more grounding, tell me."

Ah, good old chakra balancing. He's seen Sarah perform this ritual on herself and Gene, and mocked both of them endlessly for it. Still, he can't help but be interested in the process, though he knows Laynie could take pebbles from the garden in the back yard and achieve the same effect she gets right now. The colored stones _are_ pretty, though. He can understand the appeal, even if it's still absolute malarkey.

The next stone comes to rest atop Sarah's abdomen. It looks like an orange slice—citrine, undoubtedly. A fleeting look of sorrow and pain crosses Sarah's features.

"Still blocked," Laynie says. She rubs her hands together hard and fast for a few moments and places them on either side of the stone, holds them there for a minute or so, then moves on. Her hand hovers over Sarah's solar plexus.

"As strong-willed as ever," she says with a smile. "Glad to see that."

The next stone is a piece of green aventurine. She puts it on Sarah's sternum and cups her hands around the stone, draws her breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. Sarah's breathing slowly falls into sync with Laynie's. Tears fill her eyes and slip down her cheeks unnoticed.

"It's all right," Laynie says softly. "You're among friends, you know that. You can open your heart here."

After a few minutes Laynie puts a small slab of blue-and-white stone in the notch between Sarah's collarbones. Greg's seen this before—it's sodalite. Sarah keeps a big chunk of it in the office; she says it helps her concentrate, a conceit he's always mocked. He'd read a couple of New Age tomes on properties of various stones after that, both amused and disgusted by humanity's endless need to make up stories about the natural world.

"Mmmmm . . ." Sarah sighs, and relaxes visibly. "Always feels so good."

"Still a Vishuddha geek," Laynie says. "It's your favorite piece. You haven't used it for a while, but it should remember you." Greg rolls his eyes in amused disgust as she touches Sarah's forehead.

"Opening nicely," she says, and puts a crystal cluster above Sarah's crown on the cushion. "How do you feel?"

"Better. It's been too long since we did this," Sarah says. Greg snorts but doesn't say anything. Laynie turns her head. She gives him a thoughtful look that shuts him up more effectively than a sharp word or open disapproval ever could. Then she turns back to Sarah.

"Let's go to the next step."

Sarah breathes deeply now—it's plain she's already in some kind of light trance state, but her features are not relaxed. "I'm ready," she says after several minutes. Her voice is light, almost breathy, with a little tremor in it.

"All right," Laynie says, and begins the patter to take Sarah deeper into trance. Greg has to admit she's good; he finds he starts to follow her suggestions himself, and has to push away the sound of her voice, quiet and gentle. He thinks of his own hypnosis session with Chase after the bus crash, his internal disquiet at how easy it was to slip into the dream state, and how helpful it was in to discover the terrible truth about Amber. But he remembers the inevitable confabulation too—Cuddy in his fantasy, and the avatar, for lack of a better word, of Amber created out of his own resistance to the truth. He expects Sarah will have the same difficulties, and waits to see what will happen, how she'll handle it.

"Are you ready to enter your dream?" Laynie asks gently.

"Yes," Sarah says with clear reluctance. She takes a deep breath, lets it go.

"Tell me what you sense."

"Blackness . . . I can't see anything. There's ground underneath me . . . hard, cold. Unforgiving." Sarah sounds very young. "I'm trying to lift my head . . ." She starts to shake.

"What is it?" Laynie asks. "Can you tell me?"

Sarah groans. It is a sound of mortal fear, and it makes the hair on the back of Greg's neck stand up. "Can't you _hear_ it?" she whispers. She's pale enough now to make her freckles stand out.

"What do you hear?"

"The last seal . . . the last seal being opened," Sarah says. She grabs Laynie's hand. "Bodies . . . coming up out of the ground . . ."

"What do they look like?" Laynie is calm and steady. "Describe them."

"Some of them . . . are naked. Bloody, burned . . . Some . . ." Sarah's breath hitches. "Some are wearing white . . . Bob Gibbs is there . . . and—and my parents."

"She sees dead people," Greg mutters under his breath. "Great."

"What are the people doing?" Laynie asks. Sarah groans again.

"They're standing . . . they raise their arms . . . there's a light above us . . . so bright . . ." She hangs onto Laynie's hand as if it's the only thing real. "They're turning to face me . . . can't you _hear_ that?"

Okay, that's it; he's had enough. Promise or no promise, he can't deal with this nonsense any longer. "Uh oh, zombie apocalypse," he says. "Where's my rubber mallet and crucifix?"

Laynie turns her head and gives him the same piercing stare she'd used before. "Knock it off, dipshit," she says quietly, but there's no doubt she means it. He can feel himself draw in under the fiery intensity of her regard. She turns back to Sarah. "What do you see now?"

"Nothing . . . nothing." Sarah sighs, but there is no relief in it. "Black . . . just blackness."

"Okay, you're feeling relaxed and calm now. On the count of three you will waken and you'll remember the dream, but you won't be frightened, you'll be at peace with what you've seen. One . . . two . . . three."

Sarah blinks, then glances at Laynie, who smiles. "Can I show you something?" Laynie says. She doesn't wait for Sarah to reply as she gets to her feet and goes out of the room.

"I heard what you said," Sarah says. She sounds tired now, defeated. "Deal's off."

Greg is about to answer when Laynie comes back. She has what looks like an oversized playing card in her hand. She kneels by Sarah once more and offers it to her. Sarah takes it. She looks it over. After a moment she puts her hand over her eyes. Greg leans forward in concern, only to realize she's _laughing_.

"Oh, hell's _bells_," she says on a weak chuckle. Laynie looks back at Greg. Without a word she offers him the card. He takes it, scrutinizes the picture.

"Tarot," he says, torn between contempt and amusement. "Judgment. The twentieth card in the Major Arcana." He hands it back to Laynie. "I'm sure this holds some special meaning for you and the red-headed stepchild, but since I don't think like a credulous idiot, you'll have to explain."

Sarah uncovers her eyes, wipes the corners with her fingers. She removes the stones and places them in the bowl, then sits up. She looks a little better—still too pale and tense, but she's more herself than he's seen her in weeks. She flips her curls over her shoulders and folds her legs under her to face him.

"I've been having that dream for years and never realized it was the Judgment card literally come to life," she said.

"So what? You have a vivid imagination, big deal," Greg says.

"No, it's much more than that." She picks up one of the stones Laynie didn't use, an amethyst point, and holds it in her hand. "Let me see if I can explain . . ." She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Judgment is about karma. Not the way most people think of it, past lives and that kind of thing, but more like consequences for actions taken, or not taken." She strokes the stone. "The people in the dream, the ones who rose from the earth . . . they represent aspects of myself through the years, things I've done in my life that were good, bad and somewhere in-between. I've never really faced them before; I buried them. But coming here . . . that's opened the final seal, so to speak. It's time to look at those old aspects and let them go, all of them."

And you say you're not religious," Greg says after a short silence.

"I'm not. But I was immersed in Christian imagery for most of my childhood and youth. It's natural that it would be familiar and easy to comprehend for both my subconscious and conscious mind."

"You said you've been having this dream for a long time now though, and you're only figuring it out now," he points out. Sarah looks down at the stone in her hand.

"It terrified me to the core," she says simply. "I didn't want to understand, because I'd have to accept the bad with the good and all the terrible mistakes I've made. I wasn't ready to do that."

"And now you're all hunky-dory? I don't buy it," Greg says. Sarah shakes her head and glances at Laynie.

"No, it's not like that. This wasn't a magic cure-all. I'm still scared. But now . . . I know I'm ready to go to Tulsa and face my past and make whatever peace is possible, and let the rest go." She puts the amethyst in the bowl. "My irrational dreaming self just told me to proceed."

Greg rolls his eyes. "You are so full of it."

"There's more to a human being than you or I or anyone else knows," Sarah says. She leans over and gives Laynie a hug. Then to Greg's surprise she gets up and comes to him. She sits next to him on the couch and puts her hand on his arm—that gesture so familiar and comforting, her touch light and yet reassuring. "Thanks for staying with me through the zombie apocalypse."

"It was curiosity, nothing more," he says. Sarah's fingers give him a little caress.

"I'd expect nothing less," she says. Before he can fire off a sarcastic reply she stands, bends to kiss his cheek and goes into the kitchen. Laynie gets to her feet.

"Off to Texas," she says and offers him a slight smile. "All aboard that's going aboard."

Half an hour later they're on their way. Greg takes up the back seat with one of the smaller camcorders in hand as Sarah shows him how to run it.

"Just point where we tell you to," she's saying. "And if we say get in the vehicle, you do it. Okay?"

The next few hours are the antithesis of the morning's experience. This is nearly pure scientific method in action. Greg watches as the same two women who used colored rocks and pleasant sounds to effect some psychosomatic joke of a healing, now employ quantifiable, standard tools like wind shear and isobars and relative humidity to determine the course they should take.

"Why can't we do both?" Sarah says when he comments on the dichotomy.

"Two different belief systems," he says.

"I'm not so sure." Sarah sips her ginger beer. It's the first one he's seen her drink in some time; oddly, it's a welcome sight. "The chakra system was devised during a time when people had no technology as we understand and use it today, but they had the same physical attributes we do, the same senses and brain structure. Humans haven't changed much in the last hundred thousand years or so."

"They also held erroneous beliefs," he says.

"So do we, we just don't know it yet." Sarah gives him a smile. "The ancients devised a theory that fit the circumstances they observed, just as we do now. Jason's generation will discover our errors and make their own, because that's how it works. As you well know."

He aims the camcorder at her. "Wanna go on the record?" She laughs, and he feels the tightness inside him ease a little more.

After a stopoff for lunch and a fill-up for both tanks on the SUV, they head into the middle of nowhere. There's a lot of excited techno-jabber from the front seat, though all he sees is big fluffy clouds that turn into bigger grey ones. Eventually he drifts off.

"Hey, wake up! You're missin' all the good stuff, sleepyhead! Get that camcorder goin'!"

Greg comes to as someone shakes him not so gently. He sees Sarah, as her carroty curls whip around her face. Then he realizes she's not shaking him—the wind is. He sits up, slides out of the seat, turns around and comes face to face with a tornado.

Well, maybe that's a little dramatic. It's a couple of miles away, and it's not all that big. But it's a funnel sure enough, and the huge mass of ragged black clouds above it visibly rotate, and there's a weird green color in them that does not bode well for whoever might be in the path of this thing—cows mainly, from the look of wherever they are.

"WOOOOO!" Laynie dances up to him, her expression one of wild, transcendent joy. "Come on, earn your keep buddy! Get that thing in your viewfinder! We have research to do!"

Greg swallows on a dry throat. "It—it isn't coming toward us, is it?" he asks, as he clutches the camcorder.

"Yeah, but it's not movin' fast," Sarah says. "We've got a few more minutes before we deploy the turtle probe and get the hell out of here." She sounds matter-of-fact, but there is something in her voice that makes him look at her more closely. Framed against the open sky, her hair in a wild nimbus around her face, cheeks ruddy with the chill of the rising wind, she looks completely at home. This is her natural element, even more than the ocean she loves so much. Her green-gray eyes hold a fierce look in them, stern and purposeful, but there's delight there too. Without another word she puts her hands over his and lifts the camcorder to his eye level, then turns away, takes her camera off the hood of the SUV, and begins to shoot pictures. Greg forces himself to look through the viewfinder and focus on the tornado. He can't help but think of the twister in his dream. While this funnel is not as strong, it's real and it's headed toward him. His hands shake, he notices in an absent sort of way.

Then Laynie says "GET IN THE TRUCK! GOGOGO!" and Sarah grabs him by the collar and hauls him toward the back seat. He scrambles in and slams the door shut while Sarah dives into the front.

"You got the probe deployed?" Laynie shoves the SUV into drive. They fishtail down the dirt road as a spray of what sounds like pebbles hits the windows. "Damn debris! I just got the freakin' windows replaced on this thing from the last time!"

"Yeah, it's right in the path! We'll get great vid and data from this one!" Sarah holds up her hand and Laynie smacks it. They both laugh as the truck hurtles down the road. Greg sees the power lines on the left sway back and forth and looks behind him. The funnel is crossing the road five hundred yards away. It churns up dirt and broken tree limbs and a few fence posts.

"You're both INSANE!" he yells above the noise of the storm. The women break into laughter.

"We're just dedicated!" Sarah grins at him. "And you're not a tornado virgin any more! Gotta celebrate!"

"Just get me home in one piece," he moans.

"We're fine," Laynie says. "Come on, get that camcorder going, junior! You're missin' a golden opportunity!"

"I hope I miss plenty more," he mutters, but does as she commands.


	4. Chapter 4

_March 19th_

"I'm absolutely thrilled to bits at the news that Sarah's made a breakthrough. What I truly wish to know is how you feel about it." Gordon had asked the question twice, but there was no sign of impatience in his tone. Gene struggled with exasperation. It was a legitimate query, and yet he hated the sense of besiegement. It was his choice to feel that way, he knew; the knowledge didn't help.

"I think it's great. She'll get done and come home that much faster."

"Yes yes, all very American, get the job done and move on." There was a note of sarcasm now, but nothing personal in it. "There's more here than meets the eye however, don't you think? I'd like to hear of any other emotions you might be experiencing aside from rapture at Sarah's immanent return."

"You're leading the witness," Gene said. "What else should I feel?"

"You tell me, dear boy," Gordon said. "Take your time."

Gene glanced out the office door at Jason and Mandy, both absorbed in a video game. He forced himself to be honest, though it took every bit of willpower he possessed. "I . . . I don't see why she had to go all the way to Oklahoma to get this damn insight."

"Excellent. Please continue."

"That's it. Nothing more. She should be here where—" He stopped, made himself go on. "Where I can help."

"Nicely done. What else?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Gene snapped, but he kept his voice down. "I'm upset that she's not here, I want her back as soon as possible."

"Why are you whispering?" Gordon sounded intrigued.

"Jay and Mandy are in the other room and I have the door open."

"Close it," Gordon said. The amiability was gone, replaced by firmness. "Immediately."

"Roz isn't here to watch them," Gene objected.

Do you honestly believe those two adorable children need constant supervision? Shut that door." With considerable reluctance Gene obeyed. "Distracting yourself will not work. Now, I'll ask the question again: how do you feel about Sarah's epiphany?"

Gene stared at the woodstove. He noted the little crystal window in the door needed a good cleaning. "I'm jealous," he said.

"Ah," Gordon said after a brief silence. "Tell me more."

"There isn't any more. She had a big breakthrough. I'm still stuck with flashbacks and nightmares . . ." He swallowed.

"You've made considerable progress," Gordon said quietly. "All this without the support of your own family."

"Yes." Gene felt a distant sorrow touch him deep inside. "They don't know."

"Have you had no contact with them since your marriage to Sarah?"

"I've seen my brothers a few times, mostly during stopovers."

"What about your parents?" Gordon sounded curious but not concerned. "Surely they would want to know—"

"My dad's dead. Mom . . ." Gene's throat closed up. He coughed to clear it. "My mom and I . . . we—we had a fight after I married Sarah."

"You haven't told anyone about this, have you?" Gordon said after a moment or two. "Not even your wife."

"No, I haven't. It's not something she needs to know about."

"Now there you're wrong," Gordon said. "My goodness, you are a protective sort, aren't you? Why do you expect Sarah Jane to reveal her secrets when you're doing such a fine job of keeping your own under lock and key?"

"So I'm supposed to deliberately hurt her?" Gene got to his feet and began to pace. "How's that going to help anything?"

"Hiding truths is often far more damaging than telling them, as well you know from Sarah's doing the same." Gordon paused. "You're wearing a circuit in the rug again, aren't you?"

Gene came to a halt. "Yeah, so what?"

"My dear boy, it wasn't a criticism, merely an observation." Gordon exhaled. "May I inquire as to the difficulty between you and your mum?"

Gene's grip on the phone tightened. "There was more than one, but this was the most important issue."

"I suspected as much. Perhaps if you relate the argument to me as you remember it, we might sort things out."

_I want to do this._ Gene stood there, astonished by the realization. "All right," he said aloud.

"Splendiferous. Now let's begin at the beginning. What happened?"

_("How could you do this to me?"_

_His mother sat across from the well-scrubbed table, tissue in hand. Her tear-streaked face held reproach and a hint of anger—practically a full-blown tantrum, by her standards. _

"_Come on, Mom," Gene said. He glanced at the kitchen door, an old habit he'd never been able to shake. "I married Sarah because I love her, not to spite you or Dad."_

"_You could have fooled me," Mom said. She dabbed at her eyes. "You never brought her here, never gave us a chance to get to know her . . . how do you expect me to feel?" She shook her head. _

"_And yet you're judging her anyway." Gene felt a familiar surge of anger. "So what would be the point? You've already decided she's not worth your time."_

"_Michael Eugene, I've done no such thing!" Mom glared at him. "But you must admit she's—she's so—" She searched for words. "Common."_

_Gene stared at her. "'Common'? What are we, the freakin' Windsors? Jesus, Mom!"_

"_You watch your language!" _

"_I knew you'd do this. I knew you wouldn't like her! You never—" He bit back the words._

"_Go on, finish it. I never like anything you do, that's what you were about to say." Mom crumpled the tissue. "Did it ever occur to you that I only want what's best?"_

"_Maybe I know what's best for me," he hurled at her. "Maybe I know love when I find it, unlike you!"_

"_Don't you say that! I love your father!" But she too glanced at the door as she spoke. _

"_In between smackdowns I'm sure you do," he said, and knew she would not forgive him if he spoke about the forbidden subject. Mom looked away._

"_We're talking about you, not me," she said. "You're my youngest, Eugene. Parents aren't supposed to have favorites, but . . . you're my baby. You're special to me." A tear slid down her cheek. "You've always had such a difficult time letting people get close to you. I just want you to find some happiness."_

"_I __am__." He knew it was useless to try to convince her, but hoped against hope all the same. "If you'd just give her a chance, Mom. She's a good person. I think you'd like her even if Dad told you not to."_

_It was a mistake, he knew it the moment he spoke. Mom gave a delicate sniff and wiped her eyes. "If that's the way you feel, you'd better leave before your father finds you here. You know what his opinion is about this whole ridiculous situation."_

_Gene stood. He was a little surprised to find he was hurt. "So that's it. You won't stand up to that bastard for once in your life—"_

"_Michael Eugene, you will not use that language in my house!"_

"_Your__ house?" He laughed. "You're here on sufferance, Mom. Dad only lets you stay because you're useful to him. He can manipulate us to do anything he wants, through you. Well, that won't work on me anymore." He zipped up his jacket, took the car keys out of his pocket. The lump in his throat threatened to choke him; he felt sick to his core. "This was pointless. I should have known whose side you'd choose," he said. "I love you, Mom. God knows why, but I do."_

"_You say that like you won't see me again," Mom said, and tried to smile. Gene turned away and went to the door, opened it. "Eugene?"_

_He stepped out into the bright sunshine and closed the door behind him with a quiet click.)_

"Crikey," Gordon said after a little silence. "You people don't do anything by halves, do you?" He sighed. "Right then. Let's get to work. Five minute break first though. Get a spot of tea or whiskey or both, and find a comfy spot to curl up. I certainly plan to. This is going to take some time."

Gene closed his eyes. He felt a bit hollow, but within that emptiness was also a curious sense of release. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

[H]

"So how's everything going with the temporary separation?" Hazel kept her tone casual.

"Peachy," Greg said. The growl in his reply was audible even through the computer's cheap speakers. "How do you think it's going?"

"I miss him," Roz said. Hazel noticed Greg's hard stare softened a bit at his wife's quiet statement.

"Have you worked on date night as I suggested several months ago?"

"Yeah, because we can meet somewhere in Indiana for pizza," Greg said. "_Duh_."

"There's no reason why you can't spend an hour alone together on a webcam or over the phone," Hazel said mildly. "You're both inventive enough to make it an enjoyable experience even if you're not together physically."

"We have," Roz said, and blushed. Greg gave a low chuckle.

"Don't bother with the details," Hazel said, aware of Greg's delight in Roz's embarrassment. "I'm glad to know you're keeping date night going."

"Oh, we're keeping it going all right," Greg said. "Do the words 'permanent hard on' mean anything to you?"

"Only if you're abusing Viagra," Hazel said, and smiled when Roz laughed. The sessions had made a difference; there was a cheeky, almost effervescent bond between these two now, grounded in their love for each other. Even better, their mutual trust had grown too. It was charming—a word she wouldn't have associated with Greg House any time before now. Quite the opposite, in fact. "Somehow I don't think you need it."

"Nope. Love and plenty of lube do wonders," Greg said. "Are we done now?"

"Not quite. I wanted to let Roz know I'm ready to offer her a homework assignment, if she's interested," Hazel said.

"It better not be with another man," Greg said. Roz rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, right. I have my hands full with you," she said. Hazel gave her a point for that answer; it diffused Greg's jealousy and allowed him a chance to be a smartass, an astute method even if it was at her expense. Hazel had the sense Roz didn't mind; she seemed to enjoy Greg's sarcasm and often returned it, something he clearly relished too.

"I'm a handful all right," Greg said, and waggled his eyebrows. Hazel cleared her throat.

"I bet your mom used to say that a lot, though not in the way you mean it," she said. "Anyway, about the homework. You're free to take or leave it as you choose, but I think it would be of great benefit to you."

"So what is it?" Greg said, his impatience plain. Hazel waited for Roz to speak.

"What do you have in mind?" Roz said at last. She looked wary, but with a hint of curiosity in her tone.

"I'd like you to offer your services as a math tutor," Hazel said. "Maybe set something up with the school so you can help students on an individual basis."

"That's it? That's your big plan?" Greg snorted. Roz looked thoughtful.

"Why?" she asked.

Hazel smiled at her. She liked this young woman; Roz could be quiet and unassuming one moment, and fizz with sly, sarcastic amusement the next. _She and Greg are so right for each other, _she thought. "What do _you_ think my motive might be?" she asked, and ignored Greg's groan.

"There are a lot of kids who need help with this subject," Roz said after she thought about it for a few moments. "But I'm no mathematician. I just understand things like algebra, that's all. It's an essential part of my job."

"Precisely," Hazel said. Roz looked puzzled. Greg rolled his eyes and folded his arms but said nothing—quite a sacrifice on his part, Hazel knew. Accordingly she wrapped up proceedings; no point to tempt him past his ability to keep _schtum_. "Do you think you'd be interested?"

"Yes," Roz said. Hazel nodded.

"All right. I'll contact the school and you can set things up to suit yourself. I think Jason would probably be at the top of the list," she said.

"He'd like to do more than math with my wife," Greg muttered.

"It's just a crush or something," Roz said. She blushed again.

"Or something."

"He's thirteen years old," Roz said gently. "Didn't you have a crush on someone when you were that age?"

"Wasn't in one place long enough to notice any available booty," Greg said. Hazel saw his ears turn red and hid a smile. _He's lying, but the more important emotion is his possessiveness. How like the needy child within the man to put up a protest at the potential loss of love and nurturance, no matter how improbable. He'll probably never change—too many years embattled and alone. Still, the response can be modified to an extent. I can help Roz with that, at least._

"That's something the two of you might want to talk about," she said in a neutral tone. "Use the guidelines we discussed in the second session."

"You mean the weenie rules." Greg employed his favorite nickname for her suggestions. His vivid gaze darted in Roz's direction before he looked away. "Waste of time."

"Well I don't think so," Roz said softly. "I could make it worth your while, you know."

Hazel almost laughed out loud as Greg's features brightened. "I think that's my cue to leave," she said. "We'll talk a few days before your first anniversary."

"Ah, you mean the annual celebration of my life-saving bunion surgery," Greg said in all seriousness. "I didn't think you cared. The President sent me a card, though."

Roz stuck her tongue out at him. "Ha ha, you're so amusing. It just so happens she's talking about our wedding anniversary, _buffone_."

"We're _married?_ Wait-when did _that_ happen?"

"Good night," Hazel said on a laugh, and signed out.


	5. Chapter 5

_March 20th_

"Thanks for meeting me." Sarah stirred her tea and glanced at her brother. Matt gave her a quick stare, then turned his gaze to the window. He was older, no surprises there; she hadn't seen him in well over a decade. But the big bald spot, the substantial gut, the wrinkles around his eyes, still shocked her.

"Don't know why you felt you had to come all the way back home t'talk," he said. "Could have made a phone call."

_And then you could have ignored me. _"Well, too late now," she said, unable to hide her sarcasm. "How's the family?"

"You don't care about them." Matt slurped his coffee, frowned and dumped in two more packets of sugar. "Let's get to why you're here."

Sarah put her spoon down with a click. "I do care."

"Could have fooled me."

"It's hard to have a conversation if the person you're talking with won't respond."

Matt downed another slug of coffee. "So talk."

Sarah felt a surge of all-too-familiar resentment and frustration. "How's the family?"

"They're fine." His resistance was as strong as ever, a wall she'd never been able to scale. She gave up.

"Great. Change of subject. I want to talk with you about Mom's funeral," she said. "I'd like to know why you thought it was a good idea to wait two weeks after the service to tell me she was dead."

Matt winced. "Jeez, Sare!"

"Hey, you're the one who doesn't want to do small talk. Might as well cut to the chase."

"It wasn't my idea." He glared at her, but there was no heat in it; he looked worried. Sarah didn't back down.

"Well then who the hell thought that one up?"

Matt fidgeted. "I don't know why it matters . . ." He trailed off. "It was Mom."

Sarah's fingers tightened on the mug handle. "I don't buy it," she said at last, more to herself than to him.

"She was worried about how you'd react." Matt stared into his cup. "She figured you'd freak out."

"Like I did when Dad died? Oh wait, that didn't happen," she said, unable to keep the bitterness from surfacing as it always did with him. "You probably don't remember though, since you were stoned out of your skull at the time."

"And you weren't?" Matt snorted. "None of us were sober. Putting Dad in the ground was a party, not a funeral."

"That wasn't true for Mom though, was it?" Sarah said quietly. Matt gave a little angry shrug.

"Don't start that analysis crap," he said. "I don't need you crawlin' around inside my head."

"Occupational hazard." Sarah sipped her tea.

"You still work at the nuthouse?"

"Nope. Private practice." She thought of Greg and smiled just a little.

"Still married to that loser Goldman?"

Sarah tilted her head. "Avoiding the subject by tossing around insults. Some things never change." To forestall the reply she knew was coming, she kept going. "Ben's still in jail, isn't he?"

"He won't see you," Matt said. He sounded sullen now, cold. "He was livin' with trailer trash last time I heard. Probably dead from a crapped-out liver by now if he ain't in his second home at the county jail." He gave her a quick glance. "Looks like you're off the sauce."

"Have been for thirty years. Was that the real reason?"

"Reason for what?"

"Mom kicking me out of her funeral." Sarah wiped a spot of tea from the tabletop with her napkin. "She knew I wouldn't freak. Someone else used that as a convenient excuse. So who was it?"

"How the hell should I know? Emma took care of all that stuff," Matt said. He looked uncomfortable now.

"Ahah. That explains everything," Sarah said. She folded the napkin and set it aside. "Psychotic Bitch Number One made the arrangements, so along the way she set things up to exclude me. And as usual you let her do it." Anger rose up, hard and hot. "You let her!"

"I didn't let her do nothin'!"

"Oh come on, yes you did! She probably told you to meet me here too, so I wouldn't desecrate her house with my presence."

"See, this is why you weren't told." Matt sat back. He looked miserable, angry and under it all, scared. Sarah tried to find some trace of the youth he'd once been, a tall, skinny boy with strawberry-blond curls and a light of laughter and rebellion in his green eyes. He'd run to seed quickly just like Dad had, with a beer gut, red face and bloodshot eyes; he'd probably be the next one to end up in a grave when his heart gave out, and she wouldn't even get a call two weeks after the fact when it happened.

"Why, because I'm upset? Please." Sarah shook her head. "You're in so much denial about everything that went on in our house that you're practically comatose. I'm not, so somehow it's all my fault."

"It was Daddy's fault," Matt said. He drained the last of the coffee. "He liked to see people get hurt, 'specially his own wife and kids. Ben's the one who blames you, not me. He's too young to remember what happened to you when Mike started comin' around. He just knows what happened after you went to Grandma's."

Sarah felt the punch of those memories, not as powerful as they had been in recent years but still strong enough to make her flinch. "You remember too but you didn't do anything about it, did you?"

"He was ten years older and outweighed me by a hundred pounds at least. What did you think I could do?" Matt sighed and shifted in his seat. "If y'wanna get mad at anyone, get mad at Dad. He didn't take care of nothin', he just sat back and watched the fun."

A sudden wave of claustrophobia swept over her. She wanted to flee this oh-so-normal diner with its smell of bacon and eggs and coffee heavy in the air, as the waitresses bustled back and forth with platters and carafes; she wanted to fly all the way back to New York without a single look behind her. Instead she forced herself to stand her ground. _Stop runnin', Sarah Jane._ "Nobody did anything," she said. "Not for any of us."

"It's over with. Let it go, Sare."

"Not yet," Sarah said. Matt gave her a weary look.

"Don't stir stuff up," he said. "The rest of us really aren't interested in going back in time, okay?"

"None of you have figured out you live in the past anyway, have you?" Sarah sighed. "I'm not gonna make anyone to talk to me and I won't cause trouble. But even if you want to sweep everything under the carpet, I don't." She slid out of the booth, grabbed her jacket and purse. "I'll take care of this."

"Sarah . . ." Matt wouldn't look at her. "Just take it easy on people. You weren't the only one who got torn up."

"I know." She stood there for a moment, then turned away to pay the modest bill.

She sat in the van for a while, deep in thought. Ben was most likely in the county jail; she could drive across town and see if he was there, find out when she could visit. But was it wise? She remembered the last time they'd spoken . . . Her fingers touched the faint line through her eyebrow. She'd ended up in the ER again after he'd clocked her hard enough to knock her out. He wouldn't have the chance to do that to her this time, but was she ready for another encounter with a family member? When her phone rang she answered without checking the ID. "Hey."

"Hey," Gene said. He sounded tired, but there was a caress in his voice all the same. "How's it going?"

"Just saw Matt," she said.

"Let me guess. He was less than welcoming."

Sarah snorted. "You could say that."

"Want to talk about it?" Gene was careful to sound neutral, a sign he was worried about her emotional state.

"It's okay," she said quietly. "I found out who was behind not telling me about Mom's death. He didn't come out and say it, but Emma was probably the one who decided I was too much of a liability. That, and she could give me a swift hard kick and get away with it. Just like old times."

Gene sighed. "I never could figure out what the hell he sees in that bitch."

"She deals with things so he doesn't have to," Sarah said. "Matt never did like getting his piddies dirty. He hated football because he'd come home covered in grass stains and mud. Emma used to do his laundry for him back then too. Nothing's changed." She paused, chose her next words with care. "I'm . . . I'm thinking about seeing Ben."

"Sare . . ." There was a hard edge of alarm his voice now. "Don't."

"It's likely he's in jail," she said quickly. "I—I won't see him if he isn't behind bars."

"Promise me," Gene said. He struggled with this one, she knew. "You _promise_."

"I promise."

There was a long silence. "Don't let him beat you up with words. He's done enough to you."

Sarah felt the burn of tears in her eyes. "I'm just a convenient target, you know that."

"I don't care," Gene said, harsh and angry now. "You didn't deserve to be his punching bag because he was too full of his own anger to listen to the truth."

"Yeah, I know." She fought to keep from tears. "If it gets bad I'll leave, but I have to try while I'm here. I have to."

"Damn stubborn woman," Gene said.

They sat in silence for a time. "How are you?" Sarah said at last. "I miss you."

"I'm all right," he said. There was a lot more to it than that, she could tell, but he wasn't ready to share it with her, not just yet; she wouldn't push unless it became necessary. "How's Laynie doing with Greg around?"

"She's coping. It's a good thing Kate's away though. She wouldn't find him as amusing as Laynie does," Sarah said. "If I'm able to see Ben, can I call you and talk about it after we're done?"

"You've got Greg with you—"

"No," she said, knowing this was dangerous ground. "He's in Norman. It was really early when I left—and anyway he—he was in the middle of a ddx. One of his patients is crashing. Asking him to come with me would have been a distraction."

Gene didn't answer her right away. "I don't know why you've got this idea in your head that you have to do this alone—"

"But I do," she said. Gene sighed.

"_Dammit._ You'd better keep your promise then. I mean it, Sare. You won't see that idiot brother of yours unless he's got guards on either side and a glass partition between you and him. Promise me."

"I swear before all that's holy, I won't see him any other way," she said. "How's Jason?"

"He's driving me crazy over when you're coming home." Gene hesitated. "I wasn't going to tell you this until later this evening, but . . . the adoption's been approved."

Sarah closed her eyes. The tight knot in her heart loosened and disappeared, replaced by joy. "You—you got the letter?"

"Yeah, it came today. You could use some happiness to take along with you when you see that dipshit."

She swallowed hard. "I haven't said I love you yet today, have I?"

"You just did. Please take care of yourself. If you're not ready for this, don't do it. Just remember Jason and I, we're waiting for you here. You have family who love you and care about you, Sarah Jane."

That did it. The tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks. "I know," she said, and couldn't avoid an inelegant sniffle-snort. "I love you both so much. Give our boy a big hug and a kiss. I'll call you in a little while, and another call to both you and Jay this evening. Okay?"

"Guess it'll have to be. Come home soon. I love you," and he was gone.

She drove across town to the jail. "Ben Corbett—lemme see," the woman behind the counter said. As she checked the list Sarah held the knowledge of her son, hers and Gene's, to her like a shield. No matter what happened here, she would return to a real home with a real family. "He's here. What's your relationship to him?"

"He's my brother," Sarah said. The words felt strange on her lips. "I'd like to see him."

"I'll need photo ID and you'll be searched. If he agrees to see you, you'll have ten minutes." The clerk rattled off the information in a bored tone. Sarah nodded.

"Okay."

Half an hour later she sat at what looked like a long desktop divided by a thick glass partition. A black phone receiver sat on the battered wood. Someone had carved 'Shayne&RonnieTLA' in the warped veneer. Sarah wondered what their story was, if they still saw each other once a week in this grim grey box . . . Her thoughts were cut short by the entrance of her brother and two guards. He was shackled, but that made sense beyond prison regs. He'd always been good at little or no warning when he beat people to a pulp; no doubt the guards and other prisoners had personal experience with him on that count, just as she did.

Ben dropped into the chair. He stared at Sarah with an impassive expression. She stared back. The changes in Matt had taken her by surprise, so she was ready for what she saw now. Her little brother looked twenty years older than she did. He was doughy and white, his red hair almost gone; he was covered with scars, some from his younger years, but most new to her. The guard on his left picked up the phone receiver and offered it. Ben nodded and it was held to his ear.

"What the fuck do you want?" He sounded hoarse and out of breath.

"Hello Ben," Sarah said quietly.

"Why don't you come over on my side and say that." He smiled at her. "I need to finish what I started."

"Oh, for fuck's sake get off it!" She snapped the words out before she could stop herself. Even Ben looked surprised. "Would you for once just stop being the big bad asshole and _talk_ to me?"

"Nothin' to talk about." He sounded sullen now.

"Yeah there is, whether you want to hear it or not." Sarah sat back. "So fuck the chit-chat, let's just get to it. I'm gonna tell you what happened before you were old enough to understand what a disaster our family was and still is. You don't have to say anything. Just shut up and let me talk for two minutes, that's all I'm asking."

"Why're you doin' this?" There was a hint of something in that rough voice, buried beneath the hatred and malicious mockery, that gave her a bit of hope that he would listen.

"Because I need you to know that what happened was never meant to cause you pain. I would have died before—" She stopped, made herself go on. "I would have done everything in my power to prevent Dad and Mom from hurting you too, if I'd been able to. But I wasn't, and I'll take that to my grave. Now shut the hell up and let me have my say. If you want it in terms you can live with, I need to tell the truth to a total asshole today so I can scratch it off my goddamn bucket list. Okay?"

Ben said nothing. Sarah took that as assent. She grabbed a deep breath and began. "About two years after you were born, Mike started coming over to babysit. I was seven." She paused, remembered her husband and son, hugged the knowledge of them close. "He started messin' with me. It went from bad to worse, until he was comin' into my bedroom twice a week, sometimes more."

"He was fuckin' you?" Ben stared at her. "Why'd you let him?"

"I didn't have a _choice_, numbnuts," she said, and let her exasperation show. "He was a lot bigger and stronger than me. And he warned me if I told, he'd kill all of you. I didn't care if he took out Dad—"

Ben laughed, a hard, mirthless sound. "No shit."

"—but Mom and Matt and you . . ." She swallowed. "Anyway, he got me pregnant when I was fourteen. I tried to tell the nurses at the hospital about what things were like at home, but all they did was let Grandma Bailey take me and ignored everything I'd said. I hope they all burn in hell forever for that." She felt her right hand clench into a fist. "Grandma wouldn't let me see any of you. I tried a couple of times to run. I wanted to get you the hell out of there before . . . The last time I got caught she threatened to send me to Juvy. I knew if I went in there I'd never come out. So I . . . I gave up." For the second time that day tears filled her eyes. "I'm _sorry_, Ben. I wasn't strong enough to save you from everything that happened, and when I did have the chance finally you didn't trust me anymore. I don't blame you for that. I didn't trust anyone for a long time either, years and years." She wiped her cheeks. "Okay. I'm done. You can tell me to go to hell or go fuck myself if you want, it doesn't matter."

Ben's gaze never left her face. "Why'd you decide to tell me all this shit now?"

"A few weeks ago . . . let's just say I got slapped in the face with the fact that I've been running ever since I left Grandma Bailey's house. It's stupid. Time to stop."

"Five minutes," the guard on the left said. Sarah nodded.

"So why should I care about what you just told me? You gonna expect me to be all nicey-nicey now?" Ben said. He sounded contemptuous. "You're just sayin' this to make yourself feel better. You don't give a shit about me or anyone else."

"That's not true," Sarah said. "I love you, Ben. A long time ago you were the best thing in my life, the only good thing. I let them break you because I wasn't strong enough to stop them. I'm telling you what happened so that someday maybe . . . I don't know. Maybe it'll help somehow." She deliberately loosened her fist, straightened her fingers. "I'm sorry I left you behind in that hellhole. I'm sorry I gave up on you after you hurt me. I'm sorry you think I'm the enemy. I'm just your big dumb older sister." She wiped her eyes. "I wish we were meeting under different circumstances."

"Me too," Ben said. His meaning was plain. "Give me your address and I'll make sure we'll get together."

Sarah sighed. _So much for that._ "Yeah, okay. Guess we're done." She gave him one last look. "Whether you ever believe me or not, I still love you," she said, and the words caught in her throat. "I always will."

"Hold on. I got one question," Ben said. "You said Mike knocked you up. Where's the kid? You dumped him too?"

Sarah's heart contracted on a massive wave of pain. "There is no kid," she said quietly. "I tried to get rid of it because I—I had to. If Dad had ever found out . . ." She drew in a shaky breath. "That's why I was in the hospital, they had to do surgery. After that they sent me away for seventy-two hour observation and I ended up in rehab, and then Grandma took me." She bit her lip, but made herself say what came next. "I can't . . . can't have children. So I got what I deserved after all, didn't I?" She started to hang up the phone.

"Sare." When she looked at Ben it was to find the cold implacability had receded slightly. "Get out," he muttered. "Don't come back. If you got a man, go to him and stay the hell away from Oklahoma."

"_Ben,_" she whispered. He pulled his head away from the receiver, and just that quickly her time with him was over.

Sarah cried herself sick in the parking lot. For a while afterward she just sat there and waited for the numbness to set in. But it didn't happen. She felt weird—not quite empty, but not at peace. She was restless, anxious.

She finally drove to her grandmother's house. Someone else lived there now of course, some cousin-by-marriage she'd never met. She didn't bother to go up and knock on the door; it was enough to see it from the outside. The place had been renovated to some extent, and repainted. Grandma would have hated the new color scheme, yellow with green trim. She'd disliked bright colors except in her garden, and even then the flowers had to have a practical purpose of some kind . . . Sarah stared at the porch. It was open now, with a nice swing and pots on the steps filled to capacity with pansies. _No more sleeping out here in the dead of winter._ She shivered and started up the engine.

On the way out of town she stopped to fill up the tank and get a cold pop and something to munch on; she wasn't really hungry, but her stomach needed something in it. She was at the counter to pay for some pretzels and a ginger ale when her phone rang.

"Nice trick, leaving when I had my back turned," Greg said. "You're a sneaky little red-headed stepchild."

"You were in the middle of a conference call with your team," Sarah said. She took the receipt from the clerk, grabbed her makeshift lunch and headed out into the strong sunlight.

"And _you_ could have waited, but you didn't want to anyway." There was a brief silence. "I suppose you saw your idiot brothers. Are any of you gonna make the six o'clock news? Or was it all hugs and kisses and marshmallows around the campfire?"

"I'm okay," Sarah said. She started up the SUV. "I'm on my way home. Can—can we talk about it when I get there?"

"Only if you bring barbecue. Dry rub will be sufficient penance for your willful behavior," Greg said, but she heard the concern under his mocking tone.

"Okay. Dry rub it is. See you in a few," and she ended the call, then speed-dialed the top number on her list. "Hey love."

"Hey," Gene said. "How'd it go? Are you okay?"

Sarah took a deep breath. "I'm all right." She was a bit astonished to find it wasn't a lie. She was far from done, but progress had been made. "Okay, let me tell you what happened . . ."


	6. Chapter 6

_March 23rd_

Jason quickened his steps as he hunched his shoulders against the sharp wind. While it was good to see the snow melt and warmer temperatures arrive, that just made the cold blustery days of transition worse by comparison.

With alacrity he unlocked the back door, entered the mudroom and wiped his feet, shucked off his boots, coat and hat, and dumped his backpack by the door for pickup later. No homework this weekend, not even extra credit stuff; he'd busted his butt in study hall and finished it, just so he could have fun with Dad this weekend and celebrate the arrival of the confirmation letter for his adoption. Adoption . . . Jason touched the gleaming wood of the door frame as he stepped into the kitchen. This was his home now, forever. No more fear of a return to his old home, to endless hunger and cold and adults who never seemed to notice anything except their next drink or a chance to let loose their anger on a convenient target. He had a real mom and dad now, people who loved him, and he loved them too. The knowledge gave him a strange feeling inside, a sort of deep ache of happiness—a sweet pain, Mom called it. Jason savored it for a moment, then headed for the fridge.

When he passed by the dining room table with a banana and a pile of cookies on a plate, it was to find a small square package out in plain view. A note with his name on it lay next to the box. Jason set the plate and the banana on the table and picked up the paper.

_This came in the mail for you today. Enjoy-Dad _

Jason glanced at the return address for the name: _S. Goldman_. He smiled, his usual after-school snack forgotten for the moment, and went to the kitchen for a utility knife. It took a little time to open the box, as it was practically mummified. That amused him; Mom was a total tape geek, she always used too much. Eventually however he was able to pull out the flaps and lift the lid. A letter was tucked in beside a small plastic bag full of what looked like carved pebbles. Next to it was a pair of flash drives. Jason sat down, took out the letter and began to read, reassured by the sight of his mother's firm, neat handwriting. She'd taken the time to write it herself rather than print it out; he would save it with her other notes and letters.

_Hey love,_

_thought I'd send a few little things your way as an early present for the adoption approval. I can't wait to come home and celebrate with you and Dad. We're both so excited and happy, but most of all proud. You are already the best son any mother and father could ever have. The approval just makes it official._

Jason stared at the words. That sensation was back, a tightness in his chest made up of equal parts joy and pain. He wished Mom was with him now so he could hug her and feel her embrace. He knew most of the kids in his class didn't like it when their parents touched or kissed them; he felt differently. He'd never take that kind of thing for granted, mainly because he hadn't experienced it until now.

_I can't say exactly when I'll be home but it looks like it will be sooner than I'd planned, and that's a very good thing. I miss you so much,_ m'chridhe.

Jason felt tears sting his eyes. He wiped them away with an impatient hand.

_On to the gifts. The little stones in the bag are called rose rocks. They're crystals of barium sulfate infused with the red dirt that's common in this region. I picked them up in a little park just a few miles from here, in a town called Noble. They're the official state stone of Oklahoma. I hope you like them._

Jason opened the bag and gently shook out several of the rocks. They did look like flowers. He held them in his palm and examined them closely. He had a little wicker basket from his Christmas stocking swag that would be a good container for display; they could sit on his nightstand and be a reminder of Mom any time he looked at them. With care he replaced the rocks in the bag and went back to the letter.

_The flash drives are numbered. #1 is the unedited footage of the tornado we chased in Texas. _

"Sick," Jason said softly.

_#2 is a music list. A little bird tells me you've been listening to golden oldies lately and you really like Motown, so here are some of my favorites. I dedicate the first track to you and Dad. You're both all I need to get by. _

_Love you and miss you, my beautiful boy. Talk to you soon, and see you soon too. –Mom_

Jason put everything back into the box, ran to the office and booted up Mom's computer. Dad sat at the other desk, deep in his own work, case files stacked neatly by the keyboard. He looked up as Jason came in. "What did Sarah send you?" He got up to come around to Mom's side. "Show me."

"These really great stones called rose rocks. And the video of the tornado she and Laynie and House chased. And music!" Jason plugged the second flash drive into the open USB port on the computer. When the list popped up he clicked on the 'play' option. A few moments later the first track started.

"Hey, Marvin and Tammi," Dad said. He sounded pleased.

"Mom said she dedicated the first song to both of us," Jason said. When Dad said nothing, he looked up and was startled to find him with head bowed, tears in his eyes. Still silent, he reached out and put his arm around Jason, brought him close.

_There's no looking back for us_

_We got love and sure 'nough, that's enough_

_You're all I need to get by . . . _

"Your mom is an amazing woman," Dad said when the song was done. There was so much love and pride in his voice, and his cheeks were wet; he hugged Jason to him gently. "We're lucky to have her, you and me."

"Yeah," Jason said, and nestled into his father's embrace.

"Come on," Dad said finally. "Let's go work on dinner while we listen. Okay?"

Jason nodded and savored the moment when Dad gave him a little squeeze.

They were a good team in the kitchen. Dad knew some great recipes, and he was an excellent teacher. They started the music list again on the laptop. When the next song came up Dad paused in putting on his apron.

"Well, _way_ cool," he said with a grin, and tied the strings. Then he began to swing his hips and execute a number of completely dweeb moves as if they were the sickest ever. Jason stared at him in astonishment. A giggle escaped; he couldn't help it. This was the _worst _dancing he'd ever seen.

"Well, I'll be doggone if I wouldn't work all day/and I'll be doggone if I didn't bring you my pay," Dad sang, and at least his voice was okay, but everything else-! Jason felt another laugh bubble out of him.

"What on _earth?_" Roz stood in the doorway. The bewildered expression on her face did Jason in. He cracked up as Dad danced over to her and took her hand, led her to the open area behind the island. As Roz followed him, her confusion changed to amusement. She began to dance too, and she was as graceful as Dad was geeky. Jason listened to the music and watched the adults as they moved around each other with evident enjoyment, and wished Mom was here to make things even better.

"Let's hear it for catchy chauvinist songs," Dad said when the song was done. Roz laughed; her face was flushed from exertion, her thick dark hair all ruffled around her face. Jason felt another sensation deep inside, a sort of flutter.

"What's a chauvinist?" he asked to hide his reaction.

"Ask Greg sometime," Dad said with a grin, and Roz rolled her eyes.

"He likes to believe he's the prototype," she said with a smile. "So, what are you having tonight?"

It was the best time, as the three of them laughed and made dinner as music played, and Jason wished it could last forever.

When Mom called that night Jason could hardly wait to talk to her. "I got your package!" he said, and couldn't help it; he bounced up and down like a dumb three year old. Nobody was there to see him anyway, Dad was in the living room to turn out lights and bank the fire.

"Did you like everything?"

"Yeah, it came today!" Jason could hardly contain his excitement. "The rose rocks are awesome! I have them in a basket by my bed, and the tornado vid was sick! House did a good job even though he was scared."

Mom laughed. Jason listened to the familiar sound and reveled in it. "He was pretty shook up but he got over it," she said. "Did you listen to the music list?"

"Yeah, Dad and I played it while we were making dinner with Roz." Jason looked up as Dad came in. "We love you too."

"I know you do, my beautiful boys." Mom's gentle voice had a little tremor in it. "Can't wait to give you so many hugs and kisses you'll get mad at me for being a weenie."

"When are you coming home?" he dared to ask. He hadn't said it in at least three days so he figured he could get away with it.

"Have a few things to do yet," Mom said. "But it feels like I'm nearly done here, sweetheart." Her accent was stronger, but he liked it. It still sounded like her under the twang, quiet and reassuring. "You have all your homework done? How about your chores?"

"Yup, all finished," Jason said. "Even the extra credit."

"So you and Dad can have some fun this weekend, that's great. Well done, love." Her approval warmed him all the way through. "What do you have planned?"

"We're gonna go out for pizza and see a movie, and then Roz is coming over to help with the housework on Saturday and we'll play video games."

"Why do I get the feeling you'll enjoy doing housework the most?" Mom teased. Jason felt his face grow warm.

"_Mom,_" he groaned. "That's so lame!"

"All right, I'll stop. Let me talk to Dad for a bit, okay? We'll say goodnight before I go."

Jason lay in bed and listened to Dad's side of the conversation. Tiredness tugged at him but he stayed awake, because he enjoyed the sound of Dad's voice. He sounded better, not as tense; the quiet undercurrent of good humor was back in his words.

"Hey, sleepyhead." Lean fingers tugged gently on a lock of his hair. "Mom wants to say goodnight."

Jason took the phone. "Hey Mom. What will you do tomorrow?"

"I'm going back to Tulsa to talk with some people. But you can call me anytime, okay? I'd like to hear about your day, how you and Dad liked the movie."

"Okay." He stifled a yawn. "Love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. Sleep well."

He and Dad read another chapter of the book they'd chosen. Even though he'd already secretly read five chapters ahead at this point, Jason still liked to hear Dad bring the story to life. And he got to ask questions and talk about anything that puzzled or intrigued him. Still, his mind was occupied elsewhere tonight, as it had been for some days now.

"Do you think Mom is okay?" he asked when the chapter was done. Dad looked thoughtful.

"I think she's trying hard to find her balance," he said after a few moments. "She's better than she was, at least."

"What kind of balance?"

"Right now she's standing between her past and her present, trying to see how they stack up against each other." Dad rested his hand on Jason's shoulder. "What she's doing isn't easy. But it seems to me she's beginning to understand where everything belongs. That probably doesn't make much sense."

"Yeah it does," Jason said. He often went through the same process himself when he looked at his own experiences. "I get it."

"That doesn't surprise me," Dad said with a smile. He leaned down and kissed Jason's forehead. "Get some rest. We have a big day ahead tomorrow."

"Okay. 'night Dad. I love you."

"Love you too, son."

Jason lay in the soft darkness and watched the embers glow and ripple in the fireplace. _I hope Mom comes home soon, _he thought, as he had every night since her absence. _Soon . . ._

_'You're All I Need To Get By,' Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell_


	7. Chapter 7

_March 25th_

"I want to go to Dad's grave."

They sit in the SUV parked outside Sarah's aunt's house. It's been an eventful afternoon, and it looks like the fireworks aren't done yet. Greg chances a sidelong look at Sarah. She sits in the driver's seat, head bowed slightly, but there is nothing humble in her attitude. She's more like a wire with too much current run through it, as Roz would say. Her hands rest on the steering wheel; they shake slightly.

"Yeah, because he'll hear you better there than anywhere else," he says, and puts just the right amount of scorn in his words. "Haven't you had enough of your family yet? I sure have. I've got my own relatives to drive me crazy, adding yours is just not fair."

"My aunt just told me all kinds of things I never knew about Dad," she says quietly, but he hears the hard edge of determination in her voice. "I need to talk to him."

"So, what—you're going to piss on his headstone?"

She doesn't crack a smile. "Maybe."

"Oh, _swell_," he mutters. She turns her head to look at him.

"You don't have to come with me, you can wait in the truck. I just . . . have to do this." There is no plea for understanding, no expectation other than his presence along for the ride; she's let him know what her next action will be, period. He doesn't say anything. After a moment she starts up the engine, and they're on their way.

The cemetery is small, run-down, and some of the tombstones are cracked and faded. But there are fresh flowers here and there, and a large shade tree presides over the center of the property, with new leaves just begun to pop. Sarah parks the vehicle to the side and unlocks her seat belt, gets out in silence, shuts the door. Greg watches her walk away, down the narrow, pockmarked bitumen track that serves as a road. She knows exactly where she's going. He leans his head back and thinks of the last two hours. It's not like he wants to do that, but he has no choice.

_("Your father was a bad seed from the beginning, Sarah Jane. It looks like you're the only one who didn't follow in his footsteps, thank goodness."_

_May Corbett reminds him of his own mother—small, neat, unassuming, with the same red-gold curls and sea-green eyes as Sarah's, though the older woman is has grey mixed into the red. A pair of reading glasses sits perched on top of her head. She still wears her Sunday best with a pristine white apron over her good blouse and slacks, a not-so-subtle reminder that they impose on her; no doubt she's at work on dinner. She has not offered so much as a glass of water to either of them. _

"'_Bad seed'?" Sarah asks quietly. _

"_You've never had children of your own, have you?" There is a touch of dismissal in that level voice, something that says good old Auntie May knows Sarah's history but won't speak of it directly because that's not polite—and anyway, that isn't how this game is played. "Sometimes they're no good right from the start."_

"_He was a bad child?" Greg recognizes that neutral tone. Sarah uses subtle tactics on May, works to draw her out, get information while she remains polite. She knows this game too; deference to her aunt's automatic assumption of superiority will earn her a few more crumbs than she might receive otherwise. _

"_Always," May says. "Our parents had a terrible time with him. He was openly defiant, questioned everything, never could accept that he wasn't going to make anything of himself because of his unwillingness to work hard . . ." She sighs gently. "He had a bad fight with Allen when they were just children, nearly put his brother in the hospital."_

"_What did they fight over?" Greg can feel Sarah attuned to every word despite her impassive façade. May shrugs._

"_Chores, I think. Allen did have a habit of slacking when it came to getting up on time, but he was a delicate child who tired easily. It's understandable after he had that bout with rheumatic fever. He would never have made a farmer anyway, he was college material." The recitation is old and polished, a treasured bit of propaganda passed down from Mater and Pater, no doubt. _

"_Uncle Allen was the only one who ever went on to get a degree, wasn't he?" Sarah sounds suitably impressed._

"_Well, yes. Howard and Robert went into farming, and I married Ted when he left the military. In those days women weren't encouraged to further their education, it was more important to settle down, raise a family." That dig is a lot less subtle. Sarah doesn't rise to it however—she's much too wily a fish to go after such a cheap and garish lure._

"_Why do you think Dad was so much trouble?" The question is gently put, but it's quite plain Sarah expects an answer. May makes a gesture with one hand, a sort of helpless little flutter._

"_Really dear, I'm sure I don't know. He was several years older than me, so he was out of the house by the time I was old enough to understand the things he did and said . . ." She pauses in apparent distress, a nice effect. "Mother and Father tried to find something for him to do that he'd be good at . . . I just barely remember clarinet lessons, but he was so _awful_. It was quite amusing to listen to him practice. We used to tease him about it at dinner. It was obvious he'd never be any good at it, or anything else for that matter."_

_Sarah nods, though it's clear to him at least that she doesn't agree as much as acknowledge her aunt's opinion. "Did he ever try other things?"_

_May thinks about it. "I remember I caught him drawing once. He was supposed to be doing his homework, but he was doodling . . . just a sketch of the mailbox, nothing special. When he realized I was watching him, he tore it up. After that—" She shakes her head. _

"_I see." Sarah gets to her feet. "Thank you, May. You've been a great help. We've kept you long enough, my apologies for the imposition." _

_May colors at the faint little sting embedded in that last word. "You're more than welcome, dear. Give my love to your husband.")_

Greg watches Sarah trudge down the path, shoulders hunched. He has a pretty good idea of how this will play out, but the magnitude of the pain involved keeps him right where he is. There's nothing he can do to help, nothing he can say to avert what's ahead. He's here for emergency purposes only, and that doesn't involve a pat on the back and a 'there, there' speech, something he sucks at anyway. When Sarah disappears from view he digs his phone out of his pocket and calls Roz. She answers promptly.

"Hey, _amante_." She sounds pleased to hear from him.

"Hey yourself." He relaxes into the seat a bit and rubs his thigh, partly out of habit, partly because it aches—nothing serious, just a little over-exertion. "What are you up to?"

"Just finishing supper," she says. "You're hurting. Are you all right?"

"How do you know that?" he demands, intrigued.

"I can hear it in your voice," she says simply. "Do you have your meds with you?"

She persuades him to pop a couple of breakthrough-pain tabs, something he hasn't had to do in a long time. The action brings back memories of the times he dry-swallowed Vicodin, something he'd really rather not recall at the moment.

"What's going on? Tell me," Roz says.

"Impending meltdown," he says. "Sarah's, not mine."

"Can you get help if you need to?"

"Huh," he says, amused and alarmed by the sudden knowledge that he doesn't know the answer to that question. "Better hope she won't freak out."

"Where are you?" Roz says.

"Cemetery. We're visiting dear old Dad."

"This can't be easy for you either," Roz says quietly. There is no sympathy or attempt to comfort, just a statement of fact—something she does with him frequently. She doesn't play him, but she knows what he needs and she offers it without expectations. Greg relaxes a little more.

"It isn't _my_ dysfunctional family we're dealing with," he says. "For once."

"She may need your help. Can you do that? If not, I'd say give Laynie a call."

"We're to hell and gone from Norman," Greg says, and realizes what Roz points out—for good or ill, he's Sarah's on-site rescue team. "_Nice_. Thanks a lot."

"I can talk to her too, you know. Phones work for more people than the person who owns them." Now she's amused, damn her.

"I may take you up on that." He sighs. "Guess I have to go after her before she rips the place apart."

"She won't expect you to do anything," Roz says. "So your showing up will help a lot more than you think it will."

He takes that with him as he gets out of the truck and starts down the same path Sarah took. He's glad for once he has the cane with him; his leg lets him know he's pushing the new muscle through the first gate of its limits. He takes note of the warning and continues his walk.

Several minutes later he finds her. She stands in front of a grassy plot and a simple stone that says only CORBETT in block letters. As he approaches she goes down on her haunches, a slow, hesitant movement that tells him she's in pain too. She puts her hand on the ground. Her head is down; her curls spark and gleam in the slanted rays of sunshine. Greg stops several yards away. Whatever will happen, he doesn't want to be involved. It's bad enough he has to observe.

"I think I understand now," she says after a long silence. "You were the second son, the scapegoat. You were the one who carried everyone else's misery and pain, the one who always got compared to the oldest son, the golden child. He could do nothing wrong, and you could do nothing right. I get it now." Her fingers dig into the grass, knuckles white. "It was cruel of them to put you in that position. You had so many things you wanted to do, and they took it all away. They stuck you in a cage and laughed when you tried to find a way out. So you gave up, didn't you? You decided to accept the sentence. It was easier than . . . than fighting all the time. Because you never won, not once, not until you left home. And then you didn't know how to function . . ." Her voice shakes on the last word. "You had all that pain and rage inside you, and it had to come out."

To his surprise she raises her arm, pushes the sleeve up to reveal her scars. "You did this to me because they hurt you," she says. There is tight anguish in her voice now, but there is also something else—a rising fury. Greg swallows on a dry throat. _Here it comes_. "I bet you don't even remember doing it. But then why should you? It wasn't your pain, was it?"

She sits there for a moment—and then she pounds the ground with her fists, not a wild flailing but a hard, steady rain of blows, so powerful Greg flinches; she'll have bruises later. She keeps it up for a long time, she grunts with the effort but there is no other sound, just her assault on the grave. At last she stutters to a halt. She is hunched in on herself, her back rounded, hands on the flattened grass. "Do you know what you did?" she says finally. "Do you have _any_ idea? All those years . . . so much time spent trying to numb the fear and pain and rage, because of you. I couldn't trust myself or anyone else. I was scared to death of my own damn shadow, terrified I'd end up like you, nothing but poison to everyone around me. Even after I married the man I love it didn't stop. You stood there in the chapel beside me, and I was the only one who could see you laughing when we said our vows. You told me then I wouldn't be able to keep them, because you couldn't keep yours. But you never even tried."

She is silent for a long time. Then, "You _bastard_." The last word is a hiss. "You stupid miserable _bastard_." She smacks the ground with another bone-jarring thump, and Greg knows it's because she can't get at her father any other way. "You _hurt_ me." Her voice rises. "You hurt me on _purpose!_ You deliberately hurt Mom, you hurt Matt and Ben and you _enjoyed_ it! You tried to put us in the same damn cage with you even when you knew how horrible it was! And I loved you anyway! I—I didn't want to, but I did! You were my Daddy, you were supposed to love me back and take care of me and you _HURT_ me!"

Slowly she moves to sit on the soft grass, and folds in on herself. She starts to rock, just a slight movement. After a while she makes a soft, wavering high-pitched noise, a sound of utter anguish and grief. _Keening,_ Greg thinks. It scares him, this intensity of emotion; he's never known how to deal with it in himself or anyone else; almost every attempt he's ever made to try has been a disaster of massive proportions. And he understands all too well what she feels, what she's endures. He remembers his father's funeral as he stood at the lectern, looked out at the faces and felt such a powerful, baffled anger at the expectation that he'd say nice things about an utter bastard, but he couldn't disappoint them because it would hurt his mother, the only family he had left.

So he stands there, trapped between flight and paralysis, and waits for the storm to pass. It takes forever, but at last Sarah falls silent. After a few minutes Greg decides discretion is indeed the better part of valor and turns to go, only to come to a halt when he hears something he hadn't expected.

She is _laughing_.

He turns back and there she is, full out on the ground, arms and legs spread like a hit-and-run victim. Her face is wet with tears, her eyes swollen and red, but she's smiling. It's a small, shaky smile, barely there, and for all that it's amazing.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.

"It's all bullshit." She sounds breathless. "All of it. All the pain, the memories . . . all just a bullshit story." She puts a hand over her eyes, but the laughter swells. "Oh my god. I've been so goddamn _stupid_."

Greg just stands there, speechless. Of all the reactions he'd imagined, this was not among them. Sarah moves her hand and looks at him. "I haven't gone crazy," she says. "I just get it now."

"Get _what?_" he snaps, and feels an unaccountable anxiety.

Sarah levers herself upright. "_This!_" She flings out her arm. "All of this! This whole idiotic history I've made up for myself!"

"But . . . that history happened," he says, really afraid now that she's become delusional. "You're saying it didn't?"

"No, that's not what I mean." She brings her arm down and leans back a little. "The _facts_ happened, all of them. All those terrible things . . . but the story I made up about _why_ they happened, about myself, my family, my dad and mom . . . that didn't happen. That was just a story. What happened, happened. It wasn't because I was bad, or unworthy, or for some purpose . . . it was just me being born into a messed-up family. Good old random chance." She looks up at him. "Do you see?"

Greg studies her as if she's suddenly revealed a second head. Hasn't he told her this for ages? "Well . . . _yeah_."

Sarah laughs, and this time it's that clear, musical sound he's come to know and secretly cherish. "I know, I know. I get it now. Hot damn," she says. The last word comes out in two syllables: _day-yum_. She struggles to find her feet. With reluctance Greg comes forward to help her. She takes his hand, and then she gently puts her arms around him, holds him close. "Thank you for putting up with all this nonsense, with me," she says. "Thank you so much. You're a good friend."

Slowly he returns the embrace. As always her small, slender body is the essence of both strength and frailty; he feels that baffling mixture of exasperation and deep affection for this woman who has done her best to face her own flaws and weaknesses, her self-deceptions and revelations, in fearful but ultimately total honesty. He respects her search for truth even when it shatters her world; she picks herself up and goes on. There is no greater testament to her true strength. "You know this doesn't change how your family will treat you," he says. She rubs his back, just a little circular touch, a comforting and familiar act.

"Doesn't matter," she says. "My real family is standing right here. And back in New York."

"So what the hell are we still doing in Oklahoma?" he dares to say, pleased beyond all reason by her reply. She laughs.

"Damn straight. Time to go home." She gives him a little squeeze. "I'm takin' us all out for gyros and beer at the Greek House tonight after we change our return flight date."

Greg limps back to the car with her as he dreads the ordeal of the long drive ahead. Even with the breakthrough meds, he'll still have trouble with spasms; it doesn't happen every day the way it used to before the new muscle began to grow, but it's not an uncommon occurrence. He stops by the door to find Sarah watches him. Without a word she walks to the back of the truck, opens the hatch and rummages around; she and Laynie have all kinds of emergency first and secondary aid supplies stockpiled for storm-chasing mishaps. When she returns she has a large thermal patch, some extra-strength ibuprofen, a bottle of water and two packages of cookies. She shifts everything into the crook of her arm and reaches out to put her hand on his shoulder, pats him gently. It is an apology, all the more potent for being wordless.

"Better get going," he says after a moment. She nods, and with that they're on their way home.


	8. Chapter 8

_March 26th_

"Where's Mom? I don't see her and House yet."

Gene ruffled Jason's dark hair. "Give 'em some time to get their baggage, Jay. Don't worry, they'll be here."

"Greg said their flight was a little late getting off the ground because of storms," Roz said. She did her best to sound casual, but she was just as anxious as Jason.

"We'll be on our way home before you know it," Gene said quietly, and gave her a warm smile. He looked tired but happy; Sarah had called him earlier in the day, a long conversation he'd taken into the office. When he'd emerged it was with an expression much like the one he wore now. _Good news_, Roz had thought at the time, and was glad for them both. She scanned the arrival area again as more people emerged and caught sight of a tall figure. He limped toward her, duffel slung over his shoulder, cane in one hand and phone in the other. She could hear his voice raised in exasperation.

"No, I _expect_ you to run the test whether you think it's a good idea or not! What the hell do I pay you idiots for, if it isn't to do what I tell you to when you can't do your jobs properly!"

Greg sounded fed up; the scowl on his face was enough to intimidate even the stoutest heart. And yet Roz couldn't help it, she felt a surge of powerful delight at the sight of him. She'd missed him with an intensity that had dismayed her at first. It was a direct refutation of her carefully cultivated rational attitude about relationships, and dependence on someone else for happiness. Now she knew when it came to Greg she would probably never be rational. Still, he wouldn't welcome an overly emotional woman who rushed in to hang all over him, especially in his current state of mind. She began to walk toward him, measured steps though she longed to run, and offered him a smile. That at least was genuine. He ended the call and shoved the phone in his coat pocket, his gaze averted from hers. Behind the fierce frown was a considerable amount of anxiety, and Roz doubted it was because of the patient's condition. Her joy took on a bittersweet edge. _So worried he'll lose me_, she thought. _He still thinks he'll push me away without even trying._

"Hey," he said, and stopped a few feet away from her. Roz continued until she was close enough to reach out and take his hands in hers.

"Hey, _amante_," she said, and leaned in for a kiss. He was tense under her touch, but relaxed as the kiss deepened. Slowly his arms came up, brought her to him gently. Roz reveled in the feel of them around her.

"It's okay," she said when the kiss ended. "Rob told me one of your patients is having trouble. I know you have to go straight to the clinic when we get home."

Greg hesitated. His vivid gaze searched her features. "If there was any other way . . ." he said, his voice low and tentative. His carefully hidden fear touched her again; sometimes when his old wounds were revealed, she wanted nothing more than to hold him close and give him all the reassurance he needed. While she couldn't do that at the moment, she could still let him know he was in no danger of losing her.

"It's okay," she said again. "You told me from the start this would happen, it's just part of being a doctor's wife." She smirked up at him. "Anyway, anticipation is half the fun."

He brightened at that. An amused smile replaced the anxiety. "So it is," he said, and bent down to kiss her again. This one was a scorcher. Roz hung on for dear life, delighted by the way his tongue stroked hers, his big hands slid down her back to cup her cheeks. The bulge in his jeans pressed against her abdomen as he brought her closer . . .

A loud stage cough behind them brought them both out of the moment. "We _are_ in a public area," Sarah said. She looked down her nose at them, but her green eyes sparked with laughter.

Roz was relieved; it seemed like a long time since she'd seen Sarah's native warmth and gentle humor. "Welcome home," she said, smiling, and moved from Greg to her friend for a hug and a kiss. "So good to have you back."

"Thank you, sis. I'm glad to be home." Sarah glanced at Greg. "Leg hurting?"

"I'm fine. Mind your own beeswax," Greg said, but there was no heat in his words. Roz moved to his left side and slipped her arm about his waist. She made it a loose hold, and was rewarded by a further relaxation in the tight muscles under her hand. He _was_ in pain though, she could tell by the way he rested most of his weight on his left leg.

"_Mom!_" Jason flew past them to latch onto Sarah, who had dropped her baggage and opened her arms wide. Gene followed at a more leisurely pace, but when he reached his wife and son he held onto them tightly.

"My blood sugar's climbing," Greg grumbled, but he brought Roz a little closer.

The drive home was accomplished in relative comfort. Greg chose the third row seats so he and Roz could sit together, since Jason had claimed the spot directly behind Sarah and would not budge. Roz mitigated the lack of space with a pile of pillows against the side. She eased Greg's legs over her lap, which allowed him to stretch out and also gave them a chance to cuddle—not that Greg would ever admit to it, but Roz knew that was as important for him as pain relief.

"We brought sandwiches and cookies," she said. "If you need to take some breakthrough meds we can eat, and then I can give you a massage."

Greg gave her his best leer. "A handjob in the back seat . . . it's just like being sixteen again."

Roz rolled her eyes at him and spoke to Jason. "_Tesoro_, could you please give me two sandwiches and a Coke?" She ignored Greg's snort at her use of the endearment and accepted the food, to take half a sandwich for herself. Gene and Sarah broke off their quiet conversation long enough to request sandwiches and cookies as well, and Jason grabbed a sizeable pile of goodies too.

Food, a relatively comfortable position and breakthrough meds did their work. Roz stroked the tight quadriceps with gentle fingers and used the warmth of her hands to loosen the spasm. Gradually the flutter eased and became less frequent, then subsided. She kept up the massage until Greg's breathing grew slow and even. It was quiet in the van now; blues played softly above the low growl of the motor. Even Jason had run out of steam at last, curled up under the blanket Sarah had put over him. Roz smiled at the sight and glanced at Greg. Bold blue eyes twinkled back at her. Without a word he brought his discarded pea coat up over them both. When his fingers brushed her breast she sighed softly and settled against him, put her hand over his. In silence they explored each other with slow, sweet touches, both glad of the chance to become re-acquainted with familiar curves and hollows. When Greg's lips pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth Roz felt the last of her worry leave her. They were still two hours away from home, but as far as she was concerned they'd already arrived.

[H]

He hates like hell to leave Roz at the apartment and head off to work; unfortunately, copped feels and stolen kisses will have to last them for the time being.

"Call me later," Roz says as she leans in through Barbarella's driver's side window. She gives him a tender little buss on the lips, a token he can exchange for something more substantial later on.

"Wow, _carte blanche_ to call at three a.m. and talk dirty to you," he says. Roz chuckles and straightens.

"Always, _amante_." She steps back.

He grumbles under his breath as he drives out to the clinic. It's a cold, windy night and his leg, while much improved, is not happy about this weather. Neither is he. He's too old for this sort of thing; he wants to be at home to ravage his wife in their big warm soft bed, not headed across town to wrangle a bunch of idiots and drink lukewarm coffee and bend his tired mind around whatever problem's decided to manifest itself.

There are cars in the parking lot when he pulls in. He recognizes Chase's BMW and Singh's beater, as well as McMurphy's Tracker, along with several other cars he doesn't know. Looks like everyone's here except Faust and possibly Chandler.

When he walks in his team is ready for him. They all look a bit nervous. "It's not alcoholism," Chandler says by way of greeting.

"Gee, I feel _so_ welcome," Greg says, heavy on the sarcasm.

"We established that a week ago," Chase addresses Chandler with visible impatience.

"I'm repeating it because not everyone here believes it," Chandler retorts. "It's clouding some people's judgment."

"Mainly yours," Greg says, and glances at the patient rooms. One is empty—the older guy who had been admitted at the same time as Molly Mormon was diagnosed three days ago with opsoclonus-myoclonus disorder, due to an infection—but the other room is packed with men. They stand in a circle around the patient, who is seated in a chair, leads still in place. "Someone better tell me what the hell's going on in there, as if I didn't know."

"Sharon asked the elders to come in and give her a blessing," Chandler says quickly. Greg gives her a look that takes her in from head to toe.

"You were excommunicated, weren't you?" he says. His deduction is confirmed when she turns pale. Without further delay he heads for the patient's room.

"Don't go in there!" Chandler hisses at him, but he ignores her and walks through the door.

"Is this a private party or can anybody join in?" he asks, and hears Singh's chuckle disguised as a cough. The men pay no attention to him. They stand with left hand on the shoulder of the man to their left, right hand on the patient's head, to make a circle. All of them wear suits, white shirts and ties.

"—we ask a healing blessing for thy servant Sharon. She is our precious sister and a beloved daughter of Zion. Heavenly Father, may she may return to us whole and healthy if it is thy will. Let her also find peace of mind in this matter, that peace which passeth all understanding. This blessing we seal upon her head by the power and authority of the holy Melchizedek priesthood which we hold, and in the name of thy son Jesus Christ, amen."

There is a soft chorus of 'amens' from the other men, as well as Chase and Chandler. They move apart to break the circle, and converse quietly with the patient. The man who spoke comes up to Greg. "You must be Doctor House," he says. His tone is direct, mild. "Forgive us for bringing our private party to your place without dancing girls and beer, but that isn't exactly our style."

"It's a classic illustration of an exercise in futility," Greg says, unimpressed by the _bonhomie_. "Not to mention the expense of getting your suits dry-cleaned in time for Sunday to clear off all the rational vibes."

The man chuckles. "If it's futile, it's our time to waste," he says. "If it isn't, then Sharon gets a double dose of help."

"Thank you, Bishop Larson," Chandler says. The man holds out his hand and Chandler shakes it; it's an automatic response, Greg notes with interest. So his surmise was correct, she is an ex-Mormon. He'll get the story out of her later.

"You're welcome, Joy. Hope we'll see you this Sunday in Sacrament meeting." Larson sounds kind and comforting. Chandler offers him the closest thing Greg has ever seen to a smile.

"No promises. I'll . . . I'll try." She gives Greg a defiant look and scuttles off to the conference room. Greg watches her flee.

"Run, little bunny, run far and fast," he says, more to himself than anything else.

"Don't be too hard on her," Larson says softly. "She's trying to find her way, just like the rest of us."

"I thought you people had a lock on the only path worth following," Greg says, annoyed by this attempt to charm him into agreement.

"We have what we believe to be the truth," Larson says. "That doesn't make life easy. Quite the opposite, in fact. But no one said life would ever be a walk in the park." He offers a nod. "I'll speak to Sharon now, and then we'll be out of your way."

When everyone is in the conference room, he makes them wait a full minute before he says "Since the faith healers have been brought in, it's pointless for us to continue. Send her home."

"They're not faith healers!" Chandler says, predictable as ever. "They're just elders from the church who came in at Sharon's request, that's all."

"Send her home," he repeats. Chase picks up his copy of the patient's file, flips it open.

"Why do you care?" he asks, not looking up from the page. "They might as well have come in and done interpretive dance in their underwear around her bed as far as you're concerned. It won't help but it won't hurt."

"That would have been far more entertaining, especially if they're all wearing the magic Undaroos." Greg sits back a bit. "Help, no. Hurt—need I mention the P word?" When he gets blank looks he sighs and lifts his gaze to the ceiling. "I try so hard not to spare the rod and spoil the child, and this is my thanks, oh Lord."

"He means 'placebo'," McMurphy says from the doorway. "In other words, keep an eye peeled for unexplained improvements in the patient's condition. The will to believe does strange things to the human body at times." She turns to go, then glances back. "I put the mail on your desk, Reverend Father."

Greg resists the urge to stick his tongue out at her. "Begone, evil spirit!"

"Damn right," McMurphy says with a wicked little smile, and heads off to the patient's room.

"That's going to be difficult to determine," Singh points out. "We've already begun treatment for anemia with folate." Greg is about to offer a pithy reply when McMurphy's voice raised in alarm stops him.

"Get in here! She's crashing!"

Half an hour the patient's at the medical center with Chase, prepped to have her spleen removed. Greg elects to stay in his office; if he's needed the team will let him know. In the meantime he's kicked back with a shot of Booker's as he listens to Buddy Guy do justice to 'Give Me My Coat and Shoes', which suits his mood; he wants to get the hell out of here, go home to his woman and eventually get some sleep that doesn't depend on advanced gymnastic moves in too-small seats. He stares at the huge pile of mail on his desk, neatly sorted into categories, and takes his phone out of his pocket. There's just enough charge to make a call.

"Hey," Roz says when she answers. She doesn't sound sleepy, though it's close to midnight now.

"What are you doing up still?"

"Just waiting for you to come home," she says.

"Shouldn't be too much longer," he says. "Patient's in surgery now. As soon as Chase lets me know everything's handled I'll be on my way."

"How bad is it?" Her warm voice fills him with a peace that both surprises and delights him.

"Still no idea what's going on," he says, and sips his bourbon. "So are we moved into the new place already?"

"Nope. You and I are making this our home. That means we do it together," she says firmly. "I did some cleaning last weekend, but that's it."

"Lot of work involved," he warns. "You know I've got physical limits."

"Yeah, I know," she says. "We can get some help to do the renovation and moving stuff in, but we work together on colors and where everything goes. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he dismisses it, but he's pleased. A warning beep tells him his battery's nearly done. "Gotta go. See you shortly."

"You'd better," she says with a chuckle. "Love you, _amante_."

He ends the call, dumps the phone on the desk and goes in search of the charger. "McMurphy!" he bellows after five minutes of useless search in all the usual places he'd leave the stupid thing.

"What?" She appears with a stack of folded bedsheets in her arms. He holds up his phone. "It's a cell phone."

"Wow, really? I thought it was the world's first interactive paperweight. Where the hell's the damn charger?"

"Desk drawer, top center," she says, and disappears into the current patient's room. Greg limps back to the office and sure enough, there it is. He plugs in the phone, pours another shot and settles in the ottoman, listening to Buddy Guy. Slowly he lets the day go, the music fading as he drifts into a light doze.

_("Your mother has a lot to answer for." John House sits across the table from him. His blue eyes glitter, hard and bright as ice. "But I tried to do right by you even though you weren't mine." He leans forward, a slow, deliberate movement that still causes instant dread. "You'll never know how good you had it until you talk to your sperm donor, _son_.")_

He jolts awake as the phone rings. "The op went well," Chase says. "She's in post-op. Found another symptom along the way though, portal hypertension. We're damn lucky she didn't explode right there on the table."

Greg considers the clue. What all this means sits at the back of his mind, but he's too tired to pull it all together and he doesn't want to admit how much that fragment of dream upset him. "I'm outta here."

"Okay. 'night, House."

He's on his way out the door when McMurphy materializes at his elbow. "Your phone's still on the desk."

"Kind of a big hint not to call me," he says, and slips outside to freedom.

_March 27th_

Roz woke to the familiar sound of Barbarella's throaty purr. With a yawn she stretched and glanced at the clock. "Somebody's finally home," she said to Hellboy, but the cat was already on his way to the kitchen. Roz listened to the the bang of the kitchen door, the rustle of Greg's pea coat as it was dumped on the chair, the jingle of keys tossed into the basket on the table.

"Hey cat," Greg said. He sounded weary. Roz sat up and turned on the light, pushed the covers aside and went to the door. She heard the familiar halting gait—not quite so pronounced as it had been in the past, but still noticeable—and then Greg stood in the doorway, Hellboy draped around his ankles as the cat uttered little chirps of welcome.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," he said. Roz put her arms around his neck and drew him down for a kiss. She felt him breathe out slowly.

"Come to bed," she said. "You're done in."

He focused on her with some difficulty. She released her hold on him and began to unbutton his shirt. His hands covered hers. "I can't," he said, and looked both guilty and exhausted.

"It's all right," she said. "We've got time. Anticipation, remember?"

A slight but genuine smile lit up his tired face, just as it had earlier in the evening. "Knew there was a reason why I married you," he said, and brushed his lips over hers. "Lay on, Macduff."

"Tired to the bone and still quoting Shakespeare," she said, and kissed him back.

She helped him undress, careful to keep her touch gentle. He didn't even bother to wait for a pair of sleep pants, just shoved the covers aside, sat down and collapsed. He was asleep before his head even hit the pillow. Roz looked down at him for a moment. "Guess that's my cue to follow suit," she said aloud, and moved to her side of the bed. She climbed in, brought the covers over them both and turned out the light. A moment later she felt Hellboy jump up. He clambered over her to claim a spot in back of Greg's knees. Roz moved in close and fitted behind Greg spoon-fashion, with the cat nestled between their lower legs. She slipped an arm around her husband and lay her cheek to his pillow, and took comfort in his warmth. In two hours or so her alarm would go off and she'd have a long day ahead of her, even with a power nap in her truck at lunch . . . but with any luck they would have the evening to themselves, at last. On that thought she sank into sleep, content.


	9. Chapter 9

_March 30th_

"Wanna get married?"

Sarah glanced at Gene, who had his back to her. He stood by the fireplace and stirred embers to get the new logs to catch; while it had warmed up in the daytime when bright sunshine filled the house, the nights were still chilly.

"My goodness, this is all so sudden," Sarah said, conscious of Jason's perplexed look. "What's in it for me?"

Gene finished with the fire and came to sit next to Sarah on the couch. "You'd get me," he said in a reasonable tone. "What else is there?"

"Oh, I don't know . . . what kind of prospects do you have? You know I like to be kept in style." Sarah did her best to sound both demure and provocative. "A house in the Hamptons, apartment in Manhattan, a Lear jet on the back lawn . . . you know, the usual."

"Hmm . . . well, like I said, you get me," Gene said. He gave a big phony yawn, stretched out his arms and slipped one behind Sarah's shoulders. She picked up his hand and dumped his arm at his side.

"Masher," she said. "Don't think you can tempt me with kisses and sweet nothings, if that's all you have."

"Oh dear," Gene said mildly. "Guess I'll have to bring out the big guns then." He leaned in and put his lips to her ear. "How about a couple of weeks in Key West?" he stage-whispered.

"Now you're talkin'," Sarah said. "They marry people there, don't they?"

"So I've heard," Gene said. "Whaddaya say, chicky babe? Is it a date?"

Sarah glanced at Jason, who watched them with a wary gaze, as if they were two cans of gasoline about to explode. "Can we bring the rug rat with us?" she asked.

"Why not? We can make it an adoption bash too. A party here at home, then a party on the beach. What do you think, junior?"

Jason's eyes widened. "_Two_ parties? One—one in _Florida?_"

"Sure, why not?" Sarah scooted aside a bit and patted the space between her and Gene. "Come on over."

Jason didn't need to be asked twice. A few moments later he was snuggled into the empty spot with his head on her shoulder and his arms around both her and Gene.

"We thought it would be nice to have a party for you at Poppi Lou's, if that's something you'd like to do," Sarah said. "You can invite anyone you like. Then you can go with us to Key West. We'll arrange time off and homework with the school."

"We'd love to have you come with us," Gene said quietly. "It would be our first vacation together as a family. I can't think of a better way to celebrate you coming into our lives."

Jason didn't speak at first. "Okay," he said finally. His voice was barely audible. Sarah sensed an emotional shut-down wasn't far behind; he was overwhelmed. She gave the top of his head a kiss.

"Good. Now off to bed with you. Dad will come read the first chapter of the new book in just a few minutes," she said, and kept her voice matter of fact. Just as she'd hoped, she felt some of Jason's tension dissipate. He nodded but didn't move. A soft sigh escaped him. Sarah stroked his cheek. "It's for real," she said. Gene rubbed his back gently.

After Jason had finally slipped away to wash up, Gene eased his lean form next to Sarah's. When he bent his head she accepted his kiss, a leisurely moment between them. "You'd better get ready to read," Sarah said when the kiss ended. "Don't be surprised if he asks you some questions about the vacation. He's not quite sure we really do want him with us."

"He's been through a lot lately," Gene said. He smoothed a curl back from her forehead. "So have you. How's it going?"

"That's only the third time today you've asked me," Sarah said, but she didn't really mind. "I'm all right, love." She put a hand to his cheek. "How about you?"

"Better now that you're home," he said. "I missed you."

Sarah gave him a little caress. "Thanks. I missed you too." She smiled. "Meet you upstairs shortly."

"I'll be there."

She watched as Jason returned to his room and Gene settled him in, then began to read. Through the half-open door she could see them together, just hear the murmur of Gene's voice. Now and then Jason asked questions or made a comment; the exchange was comfortable, relaxed. A little of the fear over Jason's true state of mind left her. She and Gene didn't want to throw too much at him, but he also needed to know he was truly wanted. Moments like these counted for more than parties and vacations, but they had their place too. They created joyful memories to stand alongside the darker history of his past. She understood that more clearly now.

When Gene had put the book away Sarah stood. She banked the fire, replaced the screen and went upstairs, tired but in a good way. _Tomorrow I'll get my seed order sent out._ She smiled to herself at the thought and felt a quiet gladness. While she still had plenty of personal therapy hours ahead, she knew it was a good sign, wanting to work in the garden again. _Watermelons,_ she thought. _We'll try watermelons this year. Tough to grow here with such a short season, but it's still worth a try. _

[H]

Greg sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the cordless phone in his hand. He's been here for some time now, caught between a desire to forget the whole idea, and the relentless impulse to know, to discover.

Roz has displayed her usual discretion; she's left him alone but stays close. She's in the living room with a movie on. If he went in to her now, if he told her he hadn't made the call, she wouldn't hold it against him or get upset. She'll support him whatever he decides. That's comforting, though a part of him wishes she'd push him into a decision. That way he could blame her if things go horribly wrong. An unworthy thought, but then it isn't the first one he's had, and it sure as hell won't be the last.

_Just do it,_ he thinks. _Fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. All those meaningless clichés that pop into your head and do nothing but clutter it up. _He looks at the email he printed out, finds what he's looking for circled in red. He takes a breath. Then he punches in the numbers and grips the handset. His palms are sweaty. It rings once, twice; then someone answers, and Greg feels his gut clench."Hello?" The voice on the other end sounds . . . older. Hesitant, awkward. "Doctor . . . Doctor House? You're Blythe's boy?"

"Yours too, apparently," he says. There is a brief silence.

"Yeah, guess so." There is a glimmer of rueful, awkward humor in the resonant voice—something of a surprise; he'd expected resentment, coldness. "Thanks-thanks for calling. You're a braver man than I am, Gunga Din." There's a hesitation, a considering silence. _Deciding what to do, where to go with this. He's afraid too,_ Greg realizes. "Nice . . . uh, yeah, nice to meet you. Benjamin Franklin Pierce here."

"Did your parents really name you that?" Greg asks, momentarily diverted.

"Yeah, but Dad never called me anything but Hawkeye unless I was in trouble." The humor is more in evidence now. "I got to know both names pretty well over the years."

It sounds like Grandmommy either left or died at some point, but Greg lets it go for now. He can do some research on his own later. "Hawkeye . . . can't be because of the football team," he says instead.

"_Last of the Mohicans_. Dad-I mean your—your grandfather was a big fan of the book. Said it was the only one he ever read."

"You're kidding," Greg says.

"No, I think _he_ was, since he was the first kid in his family to go to college. Got a medical degree from Androscoggin." Pierce sounds amused. "Actually you come from a long line of lobster fishermen. Finest kind, as they say around here. Listen, you—you don't mind if I call you Greg, do you? Doctor House seems a little formal under the circumstances."

"Most people just use House." He honestly doesn't care. "I presume you have a specialty."

"G.P."

"Mom said you were a surgeon before you went into general practice. Why'd you give it up?"

Pierce sighs, a quiet sound. "Asking tough questions right out of the chute . . . you're definitely my kid." He pauses. "I'm not sure I can answer it to your satisfaction. Or mine."

"Give it the old college try," Greg says.

"Yeah, okay. After the war . . . let's just say I'd had my fill of patching up people the Army insisted on sending into harm's way. Meatball surgery isn't all it's cracked up to be. In fact it managed to crack me up. Runny noses and sore throats were more my style after that."

"Cracked you up . . . as in you went nuts?" A cold chill goes down Greg's spine. So his own mental problems could have even more of a genetic factor than just Blythe's propensity to addiction?

"For a while, yeah. It's not something . . . I don't talk about it. Ever. Okay? So let's not go there." The subtle pain under the harsh words is all too familiar. For once Greg doesn't push. Right now it's enough to ponder that whole 'like father, like son' truism.

"You were drafted. Couldn't have been Vietnam," Greg says, to shift the topic tangent. "I'm thinking Korea."

"Yeah. You're a diagnostician," Pierce says. "Re-opened your own practice in the Adirondacks after you left Princeton."

"You've been reading up."

"Actually your mother told me. She's incredibly proud of you. She has good reason to be." There's another silence. "She, ah . . . she didn't tell me about you, you know. I just found out not—not too long ago."

"That would explain the lack of birthday gifts," Greg says. "Nice excuse for stiffing me."

"I'll buy you a fifty-three year-old pony. One year for every birthday I missed."

Greg can't help but smile a little. "And all the horseshit to go with it, no doubt."

To his surprise Pierce chuckles softly. "You got the sense of humor anyway," he says. "Probably the only good thing I had to give."

Greg doesn't want to admit it, but instead of resentment he finds himself intrigued by this guy. There's something there, a familiarity he can't put a finger on. But whatever it is, he never felt it with John House in all the time they were forced to live together under the same roof. "So you and Mom ended up in a one night stand, apparently."

"Boy, you really do go right for the jugular, don't you," Pierce says. He sounds torn between amusement and annoyance, a dichotomy Greg understands all too well.

"It's a good technique to possess in my line of work," he says.

"What possible difference does it make to you how it happened?"

"I wouldn't be here if you two hadn't gotten together. I have a vested interest in finding out the truth," Greg says.

"Yeah, okay . . . okay. I guess maybe I owe you that much." Pierce is silent a few moments. "It was late March of fifty-eight. I was in New York for a conference, planned to meet an old friend there, you know, kill two birds with a dozen martinis between us. Your mother and I, we met at the hotel bar. I was waiting for someone and Blythe was sitting there in a blue dress . . . it was like a scene from a movie. She was pure class, your mother. Still is." The admiration is quite plain in his voice, even after all the years between this memory and today. "So beautiful, and smart with it. And she had this laugh . . . it lit up the room. There were a few other wolves trying to pick her up but she refused all of them. I could see buying a drink for her wouldn't put me in the running, so I offered coffee. She told me later that was what made her decide to talk to me."

Greg nods, even though Pierce can't see it; that's his mother, using her naivete to advantage and getting away with it through sheer charm.

"We started talking and it was like we'd known each other for years. So she ended up coming with me and we had a great evening. Trapper liked her, said she was a peach. She danced like a dream." There's a smile in the older man's voice. "At the end of the night I asked her up to my room and she said yes."

It's Greg's turn to be silent. He's imagined all sorts of ways this deed went down, so to speak, but nothing like this.

"Listen, I don't know how you feel about one night stands but you should infer from what I told you that we were both adults, we knew what we were doing and neither one objected." Pierce sounds defensive now.

"She probably didn't tell you why she decided to have sex with a total stranger," Greg says.

"I didn't ask." There's a noticeable apprehension in Pierce's tone. "So I guess you're gonna tell me now. If you're really mine you will anyway, whether I want you to or not."

The truth of that statement hits home, but Greg doesn't let it stop him. "Her husband wanted a kid of his own, a son to reflect his own image, but he was shooting blanks. So he pushed her to have an affair. She objected at first, but then she chose someone in their group of acquaintances and he freaked out. After that she made up her mind to get pregnant anyway. Actually I'm surprised she decided to go to New York, but she probably thought it was a good place for anonymous sex. She wasn't wrong."

A long silence ensues. "I see," Pierce says at last. "Real piece of work, your mother. And the guy who raised you, he was no slouch either."

"You don't know the half of it."

"I knew she was stubborn," Pierce says. "She wouldn't let me pay for the cab the next morning."

"She probably thought you'd already given her what she needed. To ask for more would be taking advantage of you."

Pierce gives a snort of amusement—the same sound Greg knows he makes when he's startled into it by an unexpected bit of humor. "I'm sure that made sense to her at least."

"Mom has a fairly strict sense of justice, though she puts her own interpretation on it." He can't believe the two of them can talk like this; they're strangers to each other, and yet it just feels right somehow. Sarah would glory in this entire event, so of course he won't tell her about it until she discovers it happened and extracts the details out of him bit by bit. "Have you decided yet to rewrite your will and leave it all to me?"

"Not much to offer, kid. A basic practice and a house in Crabapple Cove, that's all. I think there might be a lobster boat in there somewhere but don't quote me on that." Another pause. "You—you have someone? A wife, a . . . a significant other, isn't that what they call them now?"

"Wife," Greg says. "First year anniversary coming up." He doesn't know why he said that, but it's out and there's no way to take it back.

"That's great," Pierce says. "That's fantastic. What's she like?" The warmth of genuine interest shines in the simple question: he really wants to know.

"She's got all the right equipment, what else matters?"

"Oh come on, you know there's more to it than that! What's she _like?_"

For answer Greg gets up and goes into the living room. As Roz looks up he hands her the phone. She takes it, a question in her eyes. He says nothing, just waits. She rolls her eyes at him but speaks into the receiver.

"Hello?"

For the next few minutes he watches his wife get to know his biological father. She is hesitant and a little shy at first, but then Pierce says something to make her laugh and she returns the favor as her green eyes spark with amusement. After a few minutes they talk like old friends. Greg feels that tight knot in his gut loosen. Roz is a test, to see if this man is anyone he truly wants in their lives. It's not that he can't decide for himself; he's got a perfectly good bullshit detector. But now his path is linked to hers, and if he can limit the hurt he causes her through her perceptions and judgment alongside his own, so much the better.

"I'd love to meet you," she says. "I'll talk with Greg and see what he decides, and if it's okay we'll do it."

There's another minute or two of social niceties, an exchange of numbers and email addys and other meaningless actions, and then he sits next to Roz on the couch. She takes his hand in hers. "I like him," she says. "You got a cool dad. I'm jealous."

"Huh," he says, and closes the brief conversation with a kiss that pushes everything else into the background. He'll think about this whole thing a bit later, when Roz is asleep beside him and the damn cat's curled up behind his knees and the house is quiet. For now, the reassurance of someone there to hold him close is enough.


	10. Chapter 10

_April 15th_

_Oh I am a lonely painter_

_I live in a box of paints_

_I'm frightened by the devil_

_and I'm drawn to those ones who ain't afraid . . . _

"Happy anniversary."

The words are soft against Greg's lips as he lies drowsy and at peace in his warm comfortable bed. When a kiss follows he basks in the sweet taste . . . and then the significance of what his wife has just said hits him. He cracks open one eye.

"Mmmmf," he says, and glares at Roz. She smiles down at him; it's quite clear she's amused, damn her.

"I know you didn't forget," she says. "You're the one who brought it up two days ago. I'm just saying it's today, that's all."

"Oh god," he groans, and brings his forearm up over his eyes. "You have something planned."

"Nope." She moves his arm and kisses his cheek. "Other than a tutoring session with Jason and Mandy in an hour or so, no plans."

Now he takes a closer look at her. "As in none."

"Yup."

"_Seriously?_"

"Well, okay. I do have one thing on my list." Roz leans in to kiss him again. "A very late breakfast," she whispers. "I'll make it whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready right now," he says, and makes a grab for her. On a laugh she pulls back and stands up. She's already dressed—just a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt, but it looks sexy as hell on her slender frame.

"Come join me when you're cleaned up," she says, and slips from the room. A few moments later she's back with a cup of coffee. She places it on the nightstand and leaves him once more, though he knows he can ask her to stay and help him; he's done it numerous times when the new muscle cramps, or the weather makes him stiff and sore. Today's not a bad day though, even with cold rain and chill, blustery wind to accompany it; he doesn't hurt much at all, at least not yet. Slowly he sits up, takes his time, and grabs his bathrobe from the end of the bed. When he stands it's to find his pain level's a two—barely there by his standards. One corner of his mouth quirks into a slight smile.

In the shower he ponders what Roz has plotted. She's a fair-minded, rational being; since he went all out for Valentine's Day (at least by his admittedly meager, some might even say non-existent standards) she probably thinks it's only right for her to let him do what he wants today. The problem is, if her heart's not in it they'll end up on opposite ends of the couch—and that means he won't get any celebratory sex. So maybe a test or two's in order, to see what she's really up to.

When the water starts to cool he gets out, towels off and puts on his robe, runs his fingers through what's left of his hair and goes into the bedroom, to find a small stack of book-sized packages on the nightstand. Intrigued, he sits down and picks them up. A little note's been fastened to the first package. He opens it to find a card with a Hubble photo of a spiral galaxy partially obscured by a dark area on the front. Inside it says 'I like the way you dream.' That causes a reluctant smile. He'd told her one night of his plans to study physics before he'd decided on med school, how the desire is still there, pushed aside by day-to-day life. Since then she'd made it a point to find books, articles and vids on quantum physics and cosmology for both of them to enjoy, and not the dumbed-down layman's versions either; she actually likes it when he explains the theorems, and about half the time she understands them too. This is borne out by the first book in the little pile of packages. It's _The Dreams Stuff Is Made Of_, a collection of twenty-five influential quantum physics papers with commentary by Stephen Hawking. There's a book in the second package as well, another Hawking text: _The Grand Design_. The next gift is a DVD: _Into the Universe, _a documentary series he and Roz watched together and enjoyed. There is a note inside the slipcover. It says simply 'When you're ready, I support you.'

He stares at the simple sentence. Her meaning is clear: if he wants to get his Ph.D. and beyond in physics, she's okay with it. She's already stood by him with the renovation and start of the clinic. But that doesn't stop him from curiosity about why she'd make this enormous commitment.

Slowly he sets everything aside and gets dressed, as he thinks about her gifts. When he's done he takes the note in hand and heads for the kitchen. Roz is there, wrapped in an apron, busy at the waffle iron. She glances at him as he stands in the doorway but says nothing.

"What's this?" He shows her the little paper. She transfers a waffle to the stack on the plate.

"Isn't it clear?" She pours more batter into the iron, closes it.

"Let's say it isn't." He stuffs the note into his pocket. "After everything you've done, all the hard work you've put in on rehabilitating me and the clinic, and with us moving into a new place, you're still saying you'd support my wanting to do something as frivolous as put another set of initials behind my name."

"I didn't rehabilitate you, you chose to make things better yourself before I ever showed up. And I don't think what you want to do is frivolous. It's more like your heart's desire." She starts to turn the bacon in her careful, precise way. "Let's switch it around. If I wanted to go back to school, would you be okay with it?"

He gives her his patented 'duh' look. "Of course I would."

"Well, I'm okay with you going back when you're ready." She puts down the tongs and faces him. "So now you have to question why I'd say it's all right because it's you we're talking about and not me."

He untangles the sentence. "I'm just asking. It's not gonna happen. So you don't need to worry."

"Why?" she asks simply.

"I'd have a hell of a time getting into anyplace worth bothering with. No one will want to deal with a shmuck who was expelled from med school twice. Not to mention the cost."

Roz's smile fades. Now she's looking at him as if he's crazy. "With all the letters you receive from universities and colleges begging you to join their faculty or even just guest lecture, you really think you'd be rejected for a Ph.D. program, or that tuition would be a problem?" She folds her arms. "As for the money, we'd find a way. But this isn't really about that, is it?"

"I don't know, you tell me," he says, a bit defiant now.

"This is a test. You're trying to start an argument to see if I really mean what I say."

"No way," he says, impressed at her acuity.

"Yes way." The good humor is gone. She's not mad, but she's a lot less happy than she was five minutes ago. "I refuse to play this game." With that she turns away, unties her apron and hangs it up on its hook by the fridge.

"What are you doing?" he asks, intrigued by her response.

"I'm eating my breakfast," she says, and opens the fridge to extract some butter and maple syrup. She loads up her plate, takes it to the table, turns the radio to the NPR station, and sits down; she doesn't glance even once in his direction. She doesn't pout, sulk, count to ten; she just does what she said—refuses to play.

Eventually he gets a plate and joins her. They munch in silence until he says "You're a coward." Roz doesn't answer him. She gets up, takes her plate to the sink and starts to clean up the kitchen. He'll have to use bigger ammunition. "Ahah, I see. This goes beyond cowardice. You know you're wrong, that's why you're not saying anything," he says. She continues her work. "The Russian mystic has you convinced if you spout enough psycho-babble, it'll change something—"

She slings the tea towel down on the dishrack. He's achieved his aim; now she's annoyed.

"I mean it!" he calls as she goes into the living room. "You know you want to give it right back to me!" He follows after her and finds her with a backpack full of books.

"Jason and Mandy will be here in fifteen minutes," she says quietly. "They're both studying for an exam, and Mandy is having some trouble so she really needs my help."

"Yeah, so?"

Roz's eyes flash. "I'm asking you not to use the next couple of hours as a chance to score points off me," she says. "This . . . this is important to my students—"

"You're not a teacher," he scoffs, and immediately knows he's gone too far. Roz lowers her gaze to the floor. There is a long moment of silence.

"I understand you think my tutoring anyone is ridiculous," she says. Her tone is impassive but Greg knows her well enough by now to hear the pain in her words. "But it isn't a joke to me."

"So what am I supposed to do for the next two hours? I thought today was dedicated to whatever I want, not your schedule." In for a penny, in for a pound.

"_Vai bollire la testa_," she growls under her breath, and moves past him to the kitchen. He's unable to repress a soft chuckle. 'Go boil your head' is a fine riposte, and a fairly mild rejoinder since he's wounded her deeply, something he hadn't intended. But then he usually doesn't set out to hurt people—or to be more accurate, he doesn't care if he does. That's not true this time. He's ashamed that he accepted her gifts and then ground her under his heel; it's unnecessary cruelty, behavior she never deserved. And anyway, he got the answer he wants. She has no agenda other than to support him, a fact he knew from the start—but some old habits die with more reluctance than others, especially when they center around trust.

So he takes a seat in the living room where he can see through the kitchen doorway, and watches as the children arrive and get settled at the table. There's bottled water and fruit at hand—a concession to Mandy, who struggles to lose weight and has managed a modicum of success—and books piled neatly to the side. Roz sits opposite them. She has her own work, a pre-calculus text she studies to prepare for Jason, who will undoubtedly take a class in the subject when he starts high school in September.

It becomes clear fairly quickly that Roz's assessment of Mandy's ability in math is accurate. She does her best, but it's still difficult for her. "I don't understand. There are five numbers and letters there, but the book says it's only two terms," she says for the third time.

"Well, _yeah_," Jason says, with the arrogant confidence of someone who has never had any trouble whatsoever with mathematics.

"It's good to admit you don't understand. That's how everyone starts out," Roz says with a slight smile. "Try this: think of terms like phrases in a sentence, separated by punctuation. A term is any group of symbols that's set off from the rest of the expression by either addition or subtraction."

He can almost see the light bulb go off over Mandy's head. "So each group is a term?"

"Yes," Roz says, "that's it exactly," and there is warm approval in her voice. In that moment Greg realizes something he hadn't before: his wife truly loves mathematics. Out of the limited choices available to someone for whom college was an impossibility, she picked a job that would allow her to spend at least a little time each day in the pleasant halls of rational thought created the theory and culture of numbers. And she wants to share that enjoyment with others—a natural teacher if ever he saw one.

"Girls aren't good at math," Jason says, as if it's a statement of fact.

"Hey!" Instant indignation from Mandy, only to be expected from someone raised by a strong and independent single mom. "That's a stupid thing to say!"

"I beg your pardon?" Roz says mildly. "What am I, something the cat dragged in?"

Hellboy chooses that moment to jump up on the table. Everyone laughs and the tension is broken. Roz makes room for the little animal, strokes his back with a loving hand as he arches and purrs under her touch. "Who told you girls aren't good at math?" she asks Jason, who blushes and looks uncomfortable.

"Nobody," he says. "It's just that most of the girls in my class either can't do it or they don't like it."

"You know, I could say boys aren't good at writing for the same reason," Mandy says, still offended. "But that's not true. You can write when you want to, you just don't like it."

Jason is scarlet to his hairline. Greg is surprised to feel a distant sympathy. He remembers a few of his own moments of mortification with the opposite sex, some of them not all that ancient.

"I think your mom would say girls and boys could be good at anything they try," Roz says, and scratches Hellboy under his chin. "So, we were talking about terms."

A little while later the children are gone and Roz is still at the table, as she pages through the pre-calc text. Greg gets up and goes to the bedroom, extracts a little package from his backpack. In near silence he returns to the kitchen and comes to stand next to her. After a moment he puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. She doesn't tense or pull from his touch; it takes her a breath or two, but she leans toward him and rests her head against his side. They stay that way for a while. Then he places the present he brought with him on the table beside her book, and leaves her.

She comes to him in the bedroom a few minutes later. He lies on his side, as he skims through one of the books she gave him. Roz sits down beside him. "Why did you give me a journal?" she asks softly.

"First anniversary tradition," he says.

"You could have wrapped up a box of tissues and it would have served your purpose."

"But you'd have a much tougher time writing on it." He sets the book aside but doesn't look at her. "It's just a stupid present."

"That's all?" She puts the journal down between them. "I don't think so. You could have bought flowers or a box of chocolates, or lube—"

"I thought—" He bites down on the words. "Take it or leave it. Don't analyze it to death," he says finally, and winces at the snap in his tone. Roz remains silent. "You understand what a doctorate in physics and probably astronomy would mean?" he says after a while. "We'd have to move eventually, maybe California or someplace else even farther away."

Roz nods. "Yes, I know."

That simple statement floors him, because she means it. The depth of her commitment takes his breath away.

"_Why?_" he whispers. "Why would you do that?"

She doesn't answer him; instead she picks up the journal and goes out of the room. Of course he follows her. She's in the kitchen, where she returns the study books to the backpack. The radio is on once more; Joni Mitchell's sweet voice fills the quiet room. Greg stands in the doorway, hovering, indecisive.

"Thank you for my present," Roz says without looking at him. "It's beautiful."

He says nothing, just watches her. When all the books are secured once more she straightens with an innate grace of which she is totally unaware, and comes toward him. It's clear she expects him to move aside. Instead he reaches out, takes the backpack and sets it on the floor, then draws her into his arms, slow and careful. They stand there together, and listen to the music.

"I thought you might want to write about teaching," he says finally. She doesn't respond right away. Then her arms come up to hold him, bring him close.

_I met a woman who had a mouth like yours _

_she knew your life _

_she knew your devils and your deeds_

_and she said_

_go with him stay with him if you can_

_but be prepared to bleed_

The feel of her pressed against him is familiar, her slender body all angles and planes, but there's softness there too: her breasts, the curve of her proud cheekbone, her full, tender lips. She has to go up on the balls of her feet a little when they kiss, something that always makes him smile before his need for her drives all thought out of his head, like a rush of oxygen, potent and life-giving.

_Oh but you're in my blood_

_you're my holy wine_

_you're so bitter bitter and so sweet_

_I could drink a case of you darlin'_

_still I'd be on my feet_

_I would still be on my feet _

_'A Case Of You,' Joni Mitchell_


	11. Chapter 11

_(This chapter was co-written by my friend and fellow author anon004. If you haven't read her stories, I highly recommend them. –B)_

_April 20th_

"Hey, sleepyhead. Want to go for a walk on the beach?"

Jason opened his eyes. Mom sat on the edge of his bed and smiled down at him. He sat up slowly and blinked as his mind settled into reality. They were on the last day of vacation, which meant today would be spent in celebration. He savored the thought. "Yeah," he said, and stretched a little.

Mom reached out to gently ruffle his hair. "Excellent. Meet me downstairs."

Ten minutes later they unlocked their bikes from the rack in the courtyard and set out side by side into the quiet street. It was a ritual Jason had come to enjoy over the last two weeks. A few times Dad had joined them to for breakfast or to walk around town a bit, but most of the time it was just him and Mom as they rode to the beach. It was fun to go wading or search for bits of sea glass as the sun rose; they'd even joined a group to snorkel for shells once, an experience he'd thoroughly enjoyed. He had a nice collection now and looked forward to learning more about them once he was home.

"So you and Dad really are gonna get married again tonight?" he asked after a while. Mom gave him a brief smile. She looked so different here; her curls were blown by the ocean breeze into a wild tangle, and a faint tan colored her pale skin, along with a sprinkle of freckles.

"It's more like a renewal of vows," she said. "Then we'll go to the restaurant and celebrate your adoption."

"Why are you doing it in a bar?" The idea conjured up the ghost of his biological father, drunk and mean with a reek of cheap beer. It didn't make sense that his parents would want to be with people like that.

"When we came here last year, we spent most of our evenings at Ben's place," Mom said. They came to a stop at an intersection. "You're thinking people go there just to get drunk." There was no accusation in her tone, but Jason felt guilty.

"I don't know," he mumbled. He didn't know what to say that wouldn't start an argument, so he said nothing as they began to move once more, across the intersection and toward the beach.

"If you don't want to go with us tonight, we can pick you up at your room afterward," Mom said.

"I'm not a little kid," Jason said. "You don't have to protect me."

"I know." Mom flashed him a brief smile, but her gaze held both love and concern. "I also know how being around alcohol can bring back memories of bad times. I don't want you to remember pain and anger, tonight of all nights."

They didn't speak again until they'd locked the bikes in the rack at the edge of the beach and were walking along the waterline. "I'll be okay," he said. Mom stopped and turned to him.

"It's all right to say you don't want to come with us," she said. "It's all right to speak your mind with me or Dad, no matter what."

"How can you want to be around people like that?" he said after a moment. "You and Dad don't get drunk and nasty, not like—" He stopped.

"Not like your father," she finished quietly. "No, we don't. But most of the people who go out to a place like Ben's don't either. They just want to enjoy themselves, have a good time. Your father didn't drink for that reason. He did it to numb the pain inside him."

"It didn't work," Jason said. Mom nodded.

"It never does." She reached out and slipped her arms around him. He moved into her embrace, and tried not to remember endless dark nights of fear and pain, as he shivered in the cold.

"I'll make you a promise," she said after a while. "Dad and I won't drink alcohol. Not in the bar, not at the restaurant. Okay?" She smoothed a lock of his hair back from his forehead.

"Okay," he said. Something like relief washed through him. Mom gave him a gentle squeeze and moved away but stayed close. It felt comforting to have her next to him; he squinted into the bright sun, and anticipated the delights of the day and evening ahead. "I want to go to college," he said after a while.

"Good," Mom said. She picked up a bit of green glass, examined it. "What do you want to study?"

"Medicine." Jason had never been so sure of anything. "The kind House does."

"You like solving puzzles?"

"Yeah." He tried to find the right words. "House . . . he knows everything, and he uses what he knows to figure out what's wrong with his patients. I want to do that too."

"Have you talked with him about it?" Mom sounded pleased.

"No . . . he might not like it," Jason said, and winced. He sounded like a weenie.

"Actually I think he'd consider it something of a compliment," Mom said with a soft chuckle. "If you want to talk to him, I can sit in if you like. I'll warn you ahead of time, he'll be tough on you. But he just needs to know if you're serious."

"Let me think about it," he said. The thought of being cross-examined by House was daunting, to say the least.

"Don't worry. You'd be the perfect student for him," she said. "Come on, let's go to that little cove at the end of the beach and then get some breakfast, what do you say?"

[H]

Sarah was awakened from a light doze by her cell phone as it vibrated on the little table next to her lawn chair. She picked it up and checked the caller ID, then answered.

"Hey Prof."

"Sarah, my sweeting." Gordon sounded much as usual—warm, jovial, unhurried. "How are you and your little family enjoying the delights of Key West?"

"It's heaven." She stretched a bit and reached for her iced tea. "How's everything on your end?"

"Odd you should ask. I've just arrived at my estimable workplace and found there's a bit of a situation. Apparently one of the walk-in coolers decided to shuffle off this mortal coil sometime in the dead of night, naturally, and now all the meat's unusable."

"Yikes."

Gordon laughed. "Most succinctly put, and quite apt too. At any rate, after dispatching a minion to the market for various bits and pieces, I find myself with a modicum of time to spare. Would you be interested in a lightning-round _tete-a-tete_?"

Sarah sipped her tea. "Sure, why not?"

"That's the spirit!" She could almost see him beaming at her. "So, you're ensconced in a comfortable corner with plenty of privacy?"

"Yes on both counts. Gene and Jason are off doing some manly-man shopping and probably topping if off with a huge lunch." She gave a soft laugh. "When they come back they'll both sack out for ages, so we're guaranteed plenty of time."

"Excellent. Very well, I'll settle in with my cuppa and we'll get started. Simply abysmal weather here," Gordon said, and sighed a little. "I envy you your warm sunshine and soft breezes."

"Maybe next year you could come with us," she said.

"Well now, that's a thumping good offer. I may very well take you up on it," Gordon said. He sounded pleased. "All right . . . let's begin. Ready?"

"Yup." Sarah uncrossed her ankles and tried to relax.

"Delightfully economical with your verbiage, as always." There was a muffled slurp. "Mmm . . . properly brewed _Camellia sinensis_ with milk and sugar, nectar of the gods. Now, where was I? Ah yes. I'd like to return to something you said in our last session, regarding the reason your sister-in-law didn't wish you to attend your mother's funeral."

Sarah's pleasant mood evaporated. "She hates me and didn't want me there to cause a ruckus. You know that _I_ know not everyone is going to like me, so why is that a problem?"

"It's quite difficult to see why they wouldn't like you, my dear girl, but nevertheless it is true. In any case, the fact that your sister-in-law apparently detests you is not our focus here."

"What? You want to talk about her not wanting a barney at my mother's funeral?"

Gordon tutted. "Knee-jerk reactions are not the _modus operandi_ you should be using at the moment. Think about it, my dear. Do you truly believe that's the actual reason? Why would such a thing be important to her? Is your family of such high social standing that it would be ruinous for them if a tiff broke out during a solemn family occasion?"

Sarah rolled her eyes, though she knew Gordon couldn't see her. "Are you kidding? We were so low the town drunk looked down on us!"

"And yet given equally such humble origins as you claim, many families still insist on ceremony and decorum and would be mortified at any unpleasantness. Is yours formal enough in its behavior to impress the Queen at high tea?"

Sarah couldn't suppress a snort as her mind flashed back to family dinners – everyone drunk, stoned or both, ready for a fight and most likely they find it, as they dodged thrown food and even jumped to get out of the way of an up-ended table on many occasions. "You already know the answer to that, Prof."

"Agreed, but you must allow me to make my point, dear girl. It can't help but be patently obvious to you that the reason your sister-in-law didn't want you at the funeral had little if anything to do with any conflicts your presence might cause."

"I'm sure that's what _she'd_ say, though." Sarah winced at the bitterness in her tone.

"And naturally people always speak the absolute truth?" Gordon asked gently.

"Of course not, but I think she would believe it in this instance."

"On a conscious level, that's entirely possible. Still, in our profession we know people can be in amazingly circuitous and quite serious denial of their real reasons for their actions, do we not?"

Sarah sighed. "So what would the underlying reason be?"

"What do you think, my dear?"

"I don't _know_ . . ." Now that came perilously close to an out-and-out whine. She hastened to qualify it. "I mean I probably do somewhere in my brain, but I need a little help here. Please?" She wriggled in her chair and hated that panicky feeling deep in her belly.

"Since you asked so very nicely, here's an infinitesimal hint – what did your brother Ben say to you on your last visit?"

Sarah sighed. "He threatened to beat me up."

"Yes, of course he did. I know he's prone to use violence, otherwise he wouldn't have been in the county hoosegow." Gordon spoke with a steady calm eased her fear somewhat. "I meant the exchange at the end of your conversation, after you had confessed how badly you felt about leaving him behind."

"Well, he softened just a tiny bit . . . "

"Yes, and?" Gordon coached.

"He asked if I had a good man waiting for me and he advised me to get out of Oklahoma and go back to him."

"Pre-_cise_ly!"

Sarah thumped the arm of the chair. "But I don't understand. What does my brother telling me to get the hell away from him by going halfway across the country have to do with the underlying reason for my sister-in-law being a bitch and not inviting me to my own mother's funeral?"

"Sarah my love, I fully acknowledge the sentiment captured by your colorful epithet regarding your sister-in-law is undoubtedly justified, but let us not allow sentimental judgments to cloud analysis here. Other than your brother's less-than-subtle dismissal, what else was there?"

Sarah struggled with annoyance. "As I said, he asked if I had a good man waiting for me–"

"Stop!" Gordon clearly wanted her to think it through. Sarah battled frustration. She was so close, she knew it . . .

"I had a good life waiting for me . . . and he didn't?" she ventured.

"_Yes!_ Yes! Well done."

"And this has _what_ exactly to do with my sister-in-law?"

Gordon chuckled. "Draw your own comparison, my dear."

"You're saying . . . she knows I have a good life here." It made sense.

"Perhaps at the very least she strongly suspects. After all, you were the one who escaped that disastrous mess your parents created, and obtained a college education. And you've been married for several years. To all appearances it's a happy union."

"She's never met Gene or seen us together, why would she assume we're happy?"

Now Prof let his impatience show a bit, and Sarah smiled at the familiar tactic. "Do use your intelligence, my dear! This woman understands that if you were not content, you have the education and professional standing to leave any time you wish."

The conclusion was plain. "And she doesn't, no matter how unhappy she is. Are you saying she didn't invite me to my mother's funeral because she's _jealous_ of me?" She couldn't hide her shock.

"That's a perfectly reasonable assumption, don't you think?" Gordon said gently.

Sarah thought about it. It didn't seem possible, but the pieces fit together . . . "Yeah, I guess it is. In fact, that's probably the real reason. So, why did you want me to figure that out, anyway?"

He chuckled. "Why do you think I did?"

Sarah would have grunted in exasperation, if not for something that worked its way to the front of her brain. "Because I was thinking the reason she didn't invite me was about me, what—" She paused, went on. "What was . . . wrong with me. But it turns out it was about her and her negative feelings."

"You've hit the nail on its proverbial head." The pride in Prof's tone warmed her. "'Twas ever thus, my dear girl, and it's quite probable they all feel much the same way. It was never about you."

"I _knew_ that," she couldn't help but point out.

"Yes, your highly intelligent brain certainly does. Now, if we could just get your emotions to go along . . ."

She hesitated, but honesty won out. "I'll . . . I'll think about it."

"And that's all I'm asking." Muffled voices in the background intruded for a moment. "Ah, the line prep boys are back and hopping mad about something or other, so I suggest we end here before mayhem breaks out. You've made splendid progress in processing some aspects of your trip, absolutely splendid. We'll work on it a bit more in our next session, shall we?"

"Sure." Sarah swallowed on the lump in her throat. "Thanks, Prof."

"You're quite welcome, my dear." The voices rose in volume along with a few metallic clangs, followed by a thunderous crash. "Oh, deary me. Must dash. Ta, sweet girl," and he was gone.

[H]

Greg sits on the couch, phone in hand. The room is lit by a single lamp; in a pool of soft yellow light the tv flickers, the sound turned down. Roz drowses at his side, curled up within the circle of his arm, her head on his shoulder. It's quiet; there's only the sound of the wind outside moaning in the trees to accompany his thoughts.

He's just finished up a lengthy conference-call diagnostic session with his team. To his surprise, Chandler is the one who gets the ddx before anyone else. "Idiopathic myelofibrosis. It explains everything—the abnormal blood cells, esophageal varices, enlarged spleen, the portal hypertension, all of it. She needs a blood transfusion and we should start her on iron and folate. If that doesn't work, prednisone should take care of things."

It's a good call, and Chandler's first real success; he finds it interesting that she doesn't gloat or wallow in her victory, though she is pleased that the patient has a chance at something like a normal life. It confirms his decision to keep her on, at least for now. "This ought to get you back into the Church's good graces," he'd said, and ignored Chase's exasperated sigh along with Singh's quiet chuckle.

"I'm not trying to get into anyone's good graces." And just that fast she'd disappeared behind the colorless wall of her defenses.

On that thought he speed-dials Sarah. "Hey," he says. "Having a good time lighting up Key West?"

"Hey you," she says, "so glad you called!" He smiles a little. The music is back in her words once more. She sounds truly happy for the first time in weeks. "We're on our way back to the hotel," she says. He can hear street noise in the background, and Gene says something to make the kid laugh. "We'll be on our way home tomorrow. Can't wait to see you and Roz. How's everything there? How are you?"

That familiar mixture of bewilderment and delight washes over him at her words. It's still hard to believe anyone would be glad to see him again, but she keeps saying it so it must be true to some degree. "Talked to my dad. Bio-dad, not the dead one. Though that would be interesting—talking to the dead, I mean." He winces at his babbling, but Sarah takes no notice.

"How did it go?" There's warm concern and interest in her soft, clear voice.

"Guess you'll have to wait till you come home to find out," he says. Sarah laughs and he closes his eyes for a moment at the infectious, sweet sound.

"Well fine, here I was ready to tell you Jason wants to go to med school, but that's all you get now."

Greg smiles a little when he hears an anguished "_Mom!_" from the kid. So, the rug rat wants to be a doctor . . . it's a golden opportunity to put the twerp through a few tests just to see if he means it or if it's one of those 'I'm changing my mind every fifteen minutes' deals that every kid goes through. Even he did . . . for about five minutes. He glances at Roz and brings her a little closer. She sighs and snuggles in, her angular features softened in the dim light, her long lashes dark against her cheek.

"Blackmailer," he accuses, and Sarah laughs again.

"Home soon," she says. "We'll talk, okay?"

"Yeah," he says, and is glad to find there are no terrors in the knowledge that she'll guide him through difficult territory, because she's been there herself. "Yeah, we will."


	12. Chapter 12

_April 27th_

Jason took another helping of mashed potatoes from the bowl. He still had most of his peas left, and while they were tender and sweet, he just wasn't into green stuff. But he'd have to eat some of them, that was the second rule at Mom's table: at least two mouthfuls of vegetables eaten at any meal where they appeared, twice a day, every day. So he mounded some potatoes on his fork, then pressed them into the peas. He ate two bites that way, added a third to polish his halo just that little bit more, and looked up to find House watched him. The gleam of sardonic amusement in those blue eyes made Jason squirm. "Nice ploy," House said. "Beats dumping them under your plate or giving them to the cat."

"Hellboy doesn't like peas," Jason said. "Anyway, he isn't here, he's at your place."

"Astute observation." House sat back and gave a loud burp. "Needed more salt," he said to Mom, who passed by with a tea towel in hand.

"There was plenty of salt," Mom said. She slung the tea towel onto House's shoulder. "Just for that crack, you get to dry and put away."

House removed the towel and tossed it back to her. "No can do," he said. "Me and junior have a little heart-to-heart scheduled."

Jason felt a surge of something that was not quite excitement or fear, but a combination of both. He set down his fork. "Right _now_?" he asked, and winced at the squeak in his voice. It happened more lately, something he couldn't control or predict, and he found it annoying.

"Gee, our sweet little boy is becoming a testosterone-soaked teenager," House said. "Better lock up the girls." He picked a pea off his plate and launched it at Jason, who fielded it out of sheer reflex. "Living room, video game area, ten minutes. Be there or be square."

Whatever Jason expected, it wasn't that. He stared at House, who went into the kitchen with his plate. What was going on?

"Don't let him get to you," Roz said. She smiled at him. "He likes to push. It's okay to push back now and then, he'll expect it."

"Stop giving the kid cheating points!" House yelled from the kitchen. Roz just laughed softly. She gave Jason a wink and got up to clear the table.

He was a little sweaty when House joined him in front of the gaming console. Without a word the older man started up the game—_Grand Theft Auto LA_, as it turned out. Jason relaxed a bit. This was something he could do well, even with the distraction of Dad's baseball game on the wall-mounted flat screen.

He won the first three rounds, though it wasn't easy; House didn't cut him any slack, but then Jason hadn't expected him to. This whole thing was one big test, he'd realized that almost from the beginning. His best bet was to pay attention and work hard to win. Halfway through the fourth round House's phone rang. He answered it with characteristic impatience. "_What?_" After a few moments he glanced at Jason, a speculative look that imparted no knowledge. "Call me back in two minutes." He hung up. "Game's over. Office," he said, and got to his feet.

The next half hour consisted of a conference call with House's team members. Jason sat at Mom's desk and watched the others on the webcam. He wasn't part of the discussion, nor had he any desire to join in, even if by some insane chance he'd been invited; the ease with which the people involved tossed around complicated terms and ideas made him nervous. If he went to med school he'd have to study for years to learn what they already knew . . . He swallowed on a dry throat just as House said

"Let's ask our silent partner what he thinks." He glanced at Jason, then away. "Well?"

Jason froze. House actually expected him to give an opinion? "I don't know," he said without hesitation. "I don't understand what you're talking about."

"Hah. At least you're honest, which is more than I can say for the rest of the idiots on my monitor, wasting bandwidth with ridiculous theories."

"You shouldn't be asking him anything," Chandler said, but she sounded more concerned than angry.

"Gotta learn sometime," House said. Chase rolled his eyes.

"Medical school usually comes first," he said, and gave Jason a quick grin. "Stop picking on him and focus on the case."

"Stop being big brother and give me some valid theories," House snapped.

"Twenty-eight year old male presents with severe eye pain," Chandler said. She shot Jason a sidelong glance as she spoke. Her gaze held the slightest glimmer of sympathy. "The pain is constant and intense."

"So pop the eye and take a look-see," House said. Jason winced. Would they really do that?

"He's kidding," Singh said. Jason realized the remark was addressed to him. "There's evidence of ptosis and some tingling around the orbit as well as sensitivity to light. He says it's one-sided."

"Onset was approximately three months ago," Chandler said as she flipped pages in the file. "The patient states his pain's been unrelenting—"

"'Unrelenting'?" House scratched his chin. "Two dollar word. This guy's a grad student looking for work."

"BP's elevated but that could be due to the pain," Chase said. "Bloodwork is clean."

Singh held a page open as he read. "It would be a good idea to check for cranial nerve damage."

"You have an idea what this might be." House gave Singh an interested glance. There it was, that respect Jason had seen before. It made him want to be _that_ person—the one with the answers, the one people respected. He yearned for it with the same deep, almost painful need as he'd wanted a real home and family for years. _I'll be that person_, he vowed to himself. _I'll do whatever I have to, but that's me someday._

The session continued without him, and Jason found his focus turned inward. He wanted to know what they were talking about, wanted to participate. There was a sort of keen hunger within him, the same kind he used to feel in school when he had to leave his books behind at the end of the day, or risk their destruction at home; the knowledge was there, just beyond his reach. It tantalized and mocked him with its inaccessibility . . .

"Hey." House said. "Wake up, ankle biter." He tossed something at Jason, who caught it much as he'd done with the pea earlier. The object proved to be a packet of papers—letters, fragile with age, tied together with a faded blue ribbon.

"What's this?" Jason turned over the little bundle in his hands.

"You tell me," House said. He stood and went to the door. "Got a game to finish, unless you're ready to concede."

"No way," Jason said. He stared down at the letters.

House nodded. "Thirty seconds, or you lose." He went out. Jason set the letters on the desk, then on impulse hurried out to the dining room and tucked them next to his laptop before he ran to reclaim his seat and win the game. He'd have time to do a little investigation on Sunday, earlier if he could manage it . . . a surge of something like excitement filled him. _My first real puzzle,_ he thought, and hid a grin.

[H]

Sarah took off her apron and put it by the washer for the next day's laundry, stretched a little and went into the living room. It was quiet now, House and Roz having gone home and Gene in the office to finish up some work. Jason lay curled up on the couch in front of the fire; she could see by the glitter of his eyes that he was still awake. She came in and sat next to him. "How did it go with Doctor House?" she asked.

"I don't know," Jason said. "It was weird."

"How so?" Sarah made herself comfortable. Jason sat up, then lay down with his head in her lap. He snuggled in with a quiet sigh. She stroked his hair.

"I thought House would make me take a test out of a book or something," he said. "He threw a pea at me."

Sarah chuckled. "What else did he do?"

"He took me into the office with him when his team called and asked my opinion, but he just wanted to see what I'd say." Jason hesitated. "There's a lot to learn to be a doctor."

"Yes," Sarah said. "It's hard work. But it's worth it." She moved a lock of hair from his forehead. "What did you say?"

"That I didn't understand what they were talking about. But I wanted to," Jason said. Sarah smiled.

"You did the right thing when you told the truth. It's the best place to start from, usually." She moved her hand to his shoulder. "You're worried, though. Aren't you?"

"How did you know?"

"I can hear it in your voice." She rubbed his arm slow and gentle. "Tell me."

"What if I'm not smart enough?" Jason said after a moment. "What if it's a stupid mistake for me to try to be a doctor?"

"Why would it be a mistake?"

"I don't know," he mumbled. Sarah felt a little tremor go through him.

"That's your biological father talking," she said. "He told you you weren't good enough, but that isn't true. He said those things out of his own pain and inadequacy."

"I have trouble with reading and writing," Jason said. "I can't spell very well."

"Everyone has strengths and weaknesses," Sarah said. "It's a good thing to know where you need to focus your attention. The next step is to ask for help."

"Would . . . would you help me?" It was a timid request, freighted with apprehension. Sarah didn't hesitate.

"Of course I will," she said. "But there are two conditions."

"Okay . . . what are they?" Jason sounded wary.

"The first is that you work to the best of your ability every day." She kept her tone neutral. "There will be times when the last thing you'll want to do is study. That's when you need to work the hardest."

"What's the other one?" he asked when she didn't go on. Sarah smiled.

"The second condition is that you tell me when you're having trouble, so we can work together to find a solution."

"That makes sense," Jason said. Sarah gave him a gentle hug.

"My practical boy," she said, and let her pride show.

"I really liked Key West," he said after a while. "Maybe we can go back someday. I've never been anywhere outside of New York before."

"We'll go again in a year," Sarah said. "Did you and Dad have a good time together?"

"Yeah. We went deep-sea fishing the day before we left, but we didn't catch anything. It was interesting being on the ocean." Jason sounded more relaxed, a little sleepy now.

"Why don't you write about it?" Sarah said. Jason turned his head to look up at her. His dark eyes held surprise.

"Why would I do that?"

"Why not? It can be fun to share your ideas and experiences with other people." Sarah stroked his cheek. "Think about it. I'll help with that too, if you like."

Jason didn't say anything, but his hand came up to take hers in a firm hold. When he yawned Sarah seized that as her cue. "Time for you to head for bed, mister," she said.

"Don't have school tomorrow," he said in protest.

"Yeah, but it's been a busy week and you're tired. Besides, you need to rest up. We have the big party at Lou's tomorrow night, remember."

"You're spoiling me," Jason said. Sarah had to laugh.

"Yes I am." She released his hand and helped him up. "Anyway, you have your last session of PT in the morning."

"Yeah," he said, and rubbed his shoulder, then yawned again. "Rob says I'm as good as new with a wicked cool scar."

"Rob would be right," Sarah said. "You can tell your girlfriends you got it wiping out a nest of terrorists because you're really a spy for the government."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Mom, that's so _lame_," he groused, but he kissed her cheek and got to his feet. "Would you play for me for a little while? It helps me shut my mind off."

"Of course," she said. "Love you, my beautiful boy. Don't forget to brush your teeth."

To her delight he bent down to give her a hug. His thin arms held her with surprising strength. _He's growing so fast, so fast, _she thought.

"Love you, Mom," he said quietly. Then he was gone, to slip through the soft shadows in silence.


	13. Chapter 13

_May 6th_

It's a quiet Sunday night at home. Greg sits at the piano, a tumbler with a last sip of bourbon in it perched within easy reach. The house is quiet; Roz is in the study, probably at work on her schedule for this week's students; Hellboy is curled up and drowsy on the back of the couch, his golden eyes mere slits. Greg watches him as he plays bits and pieces of songs, a blues riff, a few measures of melody he finds enjoyable.

Tomorrow they will start in earnest the move to a new living space. It's strange, but after all the places he's been, all the countries he's lived in, the jobs he's gained and lost, he's never done anything quite like this before. The idea should fill him with apprehension, but all he can feel is something like a relieved sigh. _Home at last,_ he thinks, and grimaces at his sentimentality, but there it is.

Wilson had called earlier, just after they'd finished dinner.

_("There's no easy way to say this," he said. "I have cancer, House. Thymoma, stage 2. It looks like there isn't too much infiltration of fatty tissue and the tumor's pretty much encapsulated, so surgery is still the best bet with a round of chemo afterward." _

_Greg sat there, phone in hand, and tried to process the news. A few years ago this would have devastated him, sent him into a panic at the loss of his best friend, as well as the one last outpost within humanity's borders that he had left—selfish, yes, but truthful. Instead he felt the unavoidable shock of deep sorrow such news brought with it, but there was no terror, no sense of some black void before him, ready to swallow him whole. He knew what that was like, after the blood clot. "Send me a copy of your file and your test results," he said. "Let me take a look at it."_

"_Thanks. I—I wanted to ask, but . . . I'd like to ask a favor. I know I have no right—"_

"_Spit it out," Greg said, but kept his voice neutral._

"_Yeah—yeah, okay. I'd like to see you," Wilson said with some hesitation. "I know it's a lot to ask . . ." His voice trailed off, came back again. "What . . . what do you think your wife will say?"_

_Greg glanced at the kitchen doorway, full of golden light. "She's moved past what happened. I have too. Maybe you should as well."_

_There was a disbelieving silence, then a soft chuckle, followed by a cough. "You're right," Wilson said when he could speak. "You're right. Okay. May—may I talk to her?"_

_Roz took the phone with an inscrutable expression—not displeasure or annoyance, more like uncertainty. She perched on the couch and listened. "There's no need to apologize," she said after a lengthy silence. "Doctor Wilson . . . okay, James . . . it was a misunderstanding. It's over, and I'd—I'd like us to be friends, if that's all right with you."_

_Greg knew the moment Wilson had told her the news; she looked down, but not before he'd seen true sorrow in her eyes. "Oh," she said softly, "oh, _no_ . . . are you all right? Is there anything we can do to help?"_

_She spoke with him for some time—listened mostly, to be accurate; Greg realized then he'd never known Roz was not just a good listener, but an excellent one. She even made Wilson laugh a little when she dared to tease him, a tactic which earned Greg's whole-hearted approval. Humor was one of the best ways to deal with the random miseries of life._

"_You really did find a good woman," Wilson said when Roz handed the phone back to Greg and left the room. His voice was a little rough now, emotions not quite so controlled. "She should be telling me I'm only getting what I deserve for being an ass."_

"_Self-pity does not become you. What you have is survivable," Greg said. "You know the success rates—"_

"_Yeah, I know. I have all the stats burned into my brain from years of reciting them to my patients. You know what? It doesn't matter. People who should have lived didn't. The numbers aren't enough, House. There's more to it than that." Wilson drew an unsteady breath. "I want to put my life in order, just in case. After the surgery and chemo . . . I'd like to spend some time with you if—if you—you're okay with that."_

"_Hmm, let's see. Forced to endure maudlin emotional moments and endless memories of our days together at PPTH, sorting out who did what and where the blame lies . . . all in a day's work for you, but about as much fun for me as tweezing my underarms hair-free one follicle at a time."_

"_No, it wouldn't be like that! I don't care about who's to blame for things that happened—"_

_Greg snorted. "Lie number one."_

"—_and I won't force you to remember anything you don't want to—"_

"_Lie number two."_

_Wilson growled and ended up in a cough. "Stop it," he said when he could speak. "Stop messing with me! Either say yes or no so I know what—"_

"_Have to talk to the wife first," Greg said. There was a brief silence._

"_Do you . . . do you think she'll say yes," Wilson said, caution evident, "or—"_

"Wilson."

"_Okay. Okay, got it." Wilson hesitated. "I'm—I'm taking an extended leave of absence, I've been on part-time hours anyway since Mayfield . . . Cuddy's already agreed to have my partner take over."_

_Greg snorted. "Partner . . . let me guess. She's thirty-something, long legs, no inhibitions." _

"He_ is fifty-something, twenty pounds overweight and married with two kids and a grandchild on the way. Not exactly date material," Wilson said, but there was an edge of humor in his voice. "Okay, let me know and I'll know how to set things up. House . . . thanks."_

"_Don't," Greg said. "Maudlin emotional scenes et cetera."_

"_Yeah, okay. I'll—I'll talk to you later then."_

_He found Roz on the front porch. She sat with her arms clasped around her knees and watched the last bit of light as it left the sky. "You didn't have to go," he said as he sat beside her._

"_I thought you might want some privacy." _

_Greg shook his head. "Not necessary." He slipped his hand under her disreputable old sweatpants and cupped her hip. "Seems we've been asked to take in a visitor later this summer." He stroked his thumb over the slender curve. "It's up to you."_

"_Wilson wants to come up?" She stared at the sky. "Things . . . things didn't go so well the last time he was here."_

"_True," Greg said. _

"_But things are different with us now. Better." Roz rested her head against his shoulder. She didn't say anything for a while. Then, "It's all right with me, _amante_."_

"_You're not just saying that because he has cancer? Because he'll be fine after the surgery. Don't let all that emotional manipulation—well, manipulate you."_

"_No," she said. "I'm not just saying it. I want you to spend time with a friend. He needs you, but you need him too, I think.")_

And so here he is at the piano, as he tries to sort out how he feels, what he thinks. His fingers drift over the keys, fit in the notes . . . The tune suddenly registers with him, and the lyrics fall into place. He rolls his eyes at the overt sentimentality, but plays it all the same.

_She's got a way about her  
>I don't know what it is<br>but I know that I can't live without her_

Surprising; he thought he'd be focused on Wilson, but there will be time for that later, once he thinks about the situation, talks it over with Sarah in a session. So he lets the music take him into memory—the first time he met Roz, the confrontation in the office, the first time they kissed. She's bloomed since then, become—not perfect, that would be far too boring. She's a mix of angles and curves, strength and yielding softness, wisdom and foolishness, and all of her captures him in a way no one else ever has.

_She's got a smile that heals me  
>I don't know why it is<br>But I have to laugh when she reveals me  
>She's got a way of talkin'<br>I don't know why it is  
>But it lifts me up when we are walkin' anywhere . . .<em>

He can honestly say that he's never had a woman as a friend; mother, lover, hooker, coworker, but never friendship. Stacy might have come closest, but even with her he kept most of his masks in place. With Roz it's different. He enjoys her, likes the way she thinks, her honest responses, her sly, sardonic sense of humor. And she likes him too, something he can still hardly credit, but the proof is in the evidence she offers—she seeks him out, stays at his side. And she puts up with his only friend. No one has ever wanted to do that, especially after they've been wounded in the crossfire that's an inevitable part of his relationship with Wilson.

She comes to me when I'm feelin' down  
>Inspires me without a sound<br>She touches me and I get turned around  
>She's got a way of showin'<br>How I make her feel  
>And I find the strength to keep on goin' . . .<p>

He thinks of James's many attempts to find someone, all dismal failures—even Amber counts as one, though it was random chance and not personal failings that took her out of Wilson's life. He still hasn't talked with Sarah about what happened during that terrible time before his stay in Mayfield, though he knows someday he will. But he's already come to realize Wilson has played a part in some of his losses as well. And yet Roz is not lost, nor will she be. She herself has chosen to stay, to stand with him. He can't figure out why, but he'll accept it all the same.

As he plays Roz comes to sit next to him. When he glances at her she watches him with a smile. Pride fills him. She knows he plays for her; she understands what he wants to say and can't.

Slowly she leans forward. He anticipates the kiss, savors her closeness. She brushes her lips over his, touches her tongue to the corner of his mouth, a silent promise. He waits for it to deepen . . .

There's a loud hiss and the slap of something soft and pillowy against his cheek. Roz has a can of whipped cream and she's used it to decorate his face. Even as he stops and grabs for her she jumps up from the bench and hot-foots it to the kitchen, giggling. There's nothing for it but to give chase, all somber, sappy thoughts forgotten in the need for revenge—but even as he takes off after her, his delight in her audaciousness flows through him like fine bourbon, smoky and sweet.

She's got a smile that heals me  
>I don't know why it is<br>But I have to laugh when she reveals me  
>She's got a way about her<br>I don't know what it is,  
>But I know that I can't live without her anyway . . .<p>

[H]

Gene closed the book and put it on the nightstand. "Another chapter tomorrow," he said, as he always did.

"One more? Please?" Jason said as _he_ always did, but Gene could tell his heart wasn't really in it.

"Nope. School in the morning." He put a gentle hand on Jason's head. "You need your sleep. Remember, we're going over to Greg and Roz's new place after you come home."

Jason's sleepy gaze brightened a little. "Yeah. Mom said she'd bring dinner over for all of us and then she'll help out too. Roz says once everything's clean, she and House will choose the colors and then we can paint and stuff. I've never painted a room before." He yawned and snuggled into his nest. Gene ruffled his hair and brought up the covers, though the room was warm; Jason liked to burrow.

"First things first," he said. "Clean, then decorate. Do you have everything ready for school? Homework done, lunch packed?"

"Yeah." Jason yawned again. "You and Mom fixed up this house together, didn't you?"

"Yes we did, and it isn't finished yet. No house ever does get completed, there's always something to fix. But it's worth it."

"Dad?" Jason looked up at him. "Do you think Gibbs would like this? All this changing stuff?"

"I think Gibbs would say change is a natural part of life, and he'd be pleased to see his home enjoyed by someone who knows the history of the place." Gene leaned in and kissed Jason's forehead. "Love you, son. Sleep well."

"Love you Dad. 'night."

Gene took his time as he made the rounds downstairs. He banked the fire in the living room and turned out lights in the office and kitchen, then went to the back door and stood on the step for a few moments. He looked up at the stars, scattered like diamonds through the tree branches. It was a quiet night, a little windy and cool but you could still tell summer was on the way. He breathed in the smell of fresh-cut grass and clean air and smiled a little, then went inside and locked up.

When he entered the bedroom it was to find Sarah still awake. She lay on her side, book propped on a pillow. As he came in she looked at him and smiled. "Hey," she said softly, and set the book aside.

"What are you reading?" Gene stripped off his shirt and unbuttoned his jeans.

"New study on Tutankhamen," Sarah said. "Pretty good so far. How's our boy?"

Gene savored the sound of that phrase. "Tired. He's probably already asleep." He stepped out of his jeans and took his clothes to the hamper. "Are we all set for tomorrow?"

Sarah nodded. "I'll go over after Jason's in school and work on the kitchen until suppertime. Then we'll just have to get the entryway and that back bedroom done and it'll be ready to renovate." She hesitated. "We need to talk."

Gene felt his good mood evaporate. "Okay," he said, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Don't worry, it's nothing bad," Sarah said. She sat up and faced him. In the soft light of the fire her curls sparked as she moved. "It's something I've been thinking about since coming back from Oklahoma."

"Okay," Gene said again, and waited.

"Looking at what happened to the children in our family, and in yours too . . . and Jason, and Greg and Roz . . . if someone had been paying attention, if they'd had the power to offer help, maybe things would have turned out differently for all of us." She lowered her gaze to the quilt. "I could be that person here."

"That's a tall order," Gene said after a brief silence. "You can't save everyone, Sare."

"I know that now. But if I helped even one child out of the kind of misery we've all dealt with, it would be worth it." She traced a line of stitches. "I wanted to ask you first, though."

"Why?" Gene asked when she didn't continue.

"Because I've learned my lesson," Sarah said. "We make decisions together." She raised her gaze to his. "Do you agree?"

"Learned your lesson . . . I certainly hope so." Gene pretended to consider her words. "Yes, I agree. So I'll think about your proposal," he said. Sarah glowered at him. It was clear she wanted an immediate answer; he watched her struggle for a full minute before she said slowly,

"Okay, that's fair."

"Good. So I've thought about it, and my answer is 'When do you start? Because I'm really sick of your dishpan hands, Suzy Homemaker,'" he said, and flashed her a grin. Sarah blinked.

"Oh, _you_-!" she spluttered, "I'll give you dishpan hands!" and tackled him. They wrestled for a moment or two, and then the battle became something else entirely.

Much later, as they lay together, Gene said "I was afraid you wouldn't come back." Sarah looked up at him. She stroked a light line down his cheek but said nothing. "In my head I knew you would." He sighed and brought her a little closer. "Down inside though . . ."

"I won't ever leave you again." Her soft voice held reassurance and under it, absolute certainty. "You have my promise, love. No more running away."

Gene kissed her forehead. They lay together in the soft darkness and held each other close. Then he chuckled as a song crept into his mind.

"What is it?" Sarah asked.

"Just thought of something to add to the band's playlist," he said, and heard it unfold in his mind, just as he'd heard it years ago on his sister's ancient record player, the vinyl full of pops and crackles.

_for strength is mine when we're together,  
>and with you I know I'll never<br>have to pass the high road for the low  
>I have no more than I did before,<br>but now I've got all that I need,  
>for I love you and I know you love me . . .<em>

_'She's Got A Way,' Billy Joel_

_'Papa Gene's Blues', the Monkees_


End file.
